QLFC Entries
by kyella14
Summary: Series of oneshots, max 3000 words ea. Summaries inside. (1) Bella's Pet; (2) Start Again; (3) Death's Gift; (4) The Phoenix's First Companion; (5) Romilda; (6) Mist and Lake; (7) Logic; (8) Neville; (9) Shatter; (10) Drunk Love; (11) Muggles and Wizards
1. Summaries

**(1): Bella's Pet**

Bellatrix goes on a date with a Muggle. Not that she knows it's a date. It ends with a happy Bella, a frustrated Dark Lord and a traumatised Muggle. Crack!Fic. Bella/OC. Kind of. Not really.

 **(2):** **Start Again**

Discrimination. It's a vicious cycle. A never-ending one. Muggle-borns, half-bloods, purebloods - in the end, what the Light fought for is just a dream. Prejudice and hatred is all the wizarding society has ever known. All it ever _will_ know. 8th Year Fic.

 **(3): Death's Gift**

More than anything else in the world, he fears death. But Tom Riddle's desperate attempts to escape it draw more attention to him than he can handle. Tom/OC.

 **(4): The Phoenix's First Companion**

Long ago, a young phoenix met a young girl. She was fearless, kind and good - but she did not have magic. He chose her anyway. Judges' Pick for the round!

 **(5): Romilda**

She was as vain as her name suggested, but that didn't mean that was all she was.

 **(6): Mist and Lake**

Andromeda faces life without her husband by her side. Ted/Andromeda.

 **(7): Logic**

Two years after Voldemort wins the war, the Muggle world is almost decimated. Perhaps, however, there is hope for them, in the most unlikely of places.

 **(8): Neville**

A story about Neville in his younger years, when he was with his parents, to how he deals with their sudden, unexplained absence in his life.

 **(9): Shatter**

In which Sir Cadogan watches a love blossom between two Hogwarts students, and picks a most inopportune time to interrupt them and declare one a scoundrel for toying with the fair lady's gently heart. Needless to say, it is not appreciated. Especially by aforementioned 'scoundrel'. Fremione. Character death.

 **(10): Drunk Love**

Where Harry declares his love for cacti, and Draco's heart breaks and stops and mends. Kind of cracky. Mild Drarry, mostly implied.

 **(11): Muggles and Wizards**

May 12th, 2008. Pansy and Draco are in Chengdu, China to meet with the Chinese Minister of Magic. When one of the most devastating earthquakes in recent history strikes, their lives are changed forever.


	2. Bella's Pet

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: Written for QLFC Round 1. My position is Beater 2. Prompt was to write about a Death Eater on a date, and I chose Bellatrix. There were also two optional prompts:**

 **(word) unpleasant**

 **(dialogue) if you don't eat your vegetables you won't get any pudding**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It all started when Bellatrix brought in another puppy and presented it to the Dark Lord. "I'll keep you this time," she promised to its wide, brown eyes. "Mr Big Bad Dark Lord isn't going to take you from me, no, he isn't. No, he isn't."

"Bella," the Dark Lord screeched. "I told you to stop bringing in furry little pests!"

"It's mine," she said stubbornly.

"No!" he screeched again. Bellatrix sighed and cursed herself for not thinking to cast a Muffling Charm on her ears before she came in. "You've already taken in sixteen different beasts in the past two months, and I'm sick of having to clean up after them! It's not even a _good_ number."

"Well, then, maybe you should have just let me keep them."

He paused in his rant about how the number seven and all its multiples were much better numbers, and looked her in the eye. "Bella, what would you feed this… thing?"

"Ogden's Old Firewhiskey," she replied immediately.

The Dark Lord's voice went screechy again. "That's not even a food. It's a drink, Bella, it's _alcohol._ "

"It cleanses the system," she insisted. "It'll keep them healthy."

"No puppies!"

"Puppies!"

"No! _Accio_!"

Her beautiful pet zoomed out of her arms, despite her trying her best to hold on.

The Dark Lord hissed, and Nagini came slithering forth. The blasted snake coiled around _her_ puppy and took it away to join the rest of Bellatrix's lost pets.

Bellatrix nearly sobbed. "My Lord, how could you?"

"No pets for you," he screeched.

"My Lord, my ears hurt."

He scowled, and cleared his throat. "No pets for you," he said firmly, in a much lower and soothing baritone. "Now, _get out._ "

"Fine," she said, and stomped out.

And then, she got her idea. A stroke of brilliance, really. Pure genius.

Pausing at the door, she started cackling with glee, ignoring the Dark Lord's unnerved glances at her.

"Bella," he warned.

She smiled brightly at him. Rodolphus – the flatterer – had always said that her best smile made her look even more demented and insane. "I'll be in my chambers, my Lord." A lie. And one the Dark Lord saw through.

" _Bella_!"

She Disapparated.

* * *

Bellatrix beamed at the Muggle sitting across her. It smiled back.

"Hello," she said, fluttering her lashes.

"Er, hi," said the monkey. _It talks!_ "I'm Eli." Bellatrix scrunched up her nose at the name – she didn't like the name very much. Mortis, she decided. Much better.

She scrutinised Mortis – taking in its eyes, a lovely shade of blue, and its hair that curled into bouncy locks. She reached over and ruffled it experimentally, almost cooing and how soft it was. "Oh," sighed Bellatrix. "You have such nice hair. Good for petting."

"Yeah, a lot of people tell me that," said Mortis, lips quirking upwards. "Not the petting bit, though."

"How strange," she said, eyes wide. How could that not be the first thing people said about its hair? _Muggles_ , she thought disdainfully. "Do you want to come back to my place?"

Mortis' mouth fell open a little. "I don't even know your name," it protested. Bellatrix frowned. That wouldn't do. The book – _Muggles and How to Get One_ – she had bought from Diagon Alley (and killed the shopkeeper for to ensure his silence) had said that Muggles usually agreed to that. Then again, the book also said that Muggle could read and Bellatrix _knew_ that wasn't true.

"My name," Bellatrix paused thoughtfully. Perhaps she should begin training the Muggle now. "is Mistress."

"Mistress," repeated Mortis slowly.

Bellatrix beamed. " _Very_ good, Mortis! Here, have a biscuit." She took one from her plate and placed it on the Muggle's.

"My name's _Eli,_ " said Mortis. Bellatrix looked pointedly at it, and it sighed and ate obediently.

"What's your name, _really_?" it asked.

 _It's a smart one,_ thought Bellatrix, congratulating herself for the excellent choice. "Bellatrix," she conceded. "And you may call me Mistress Bellatrix. Oh, that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

The monkey stared at her for a moment, then gave her a lopsided grin. "Alright, _Mistress Bellatrix_."

"Lovely. Biscuit?"

"Thanks. You're pretty interesting, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to get to know you first. Make sure you aren't a psychotic killer and all that, you know."

"How did you know?" she whispered, looking horrified. It was _too_ smart!

It burst out laughing. "So, you _are_ a psychotic killer? Mind telling me about your latest victim?"

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at it suspiciously. Did it not _care_? Even wizards and witches did not want to hear about her most recent trophies – of course, most ran upon seeing her or sobbed and begged for mercy.

"It was in my sister's residence," said Bellatrix slowly, testing its reaction. It would be quite annoying if it decided to run, after all, and she would have to chase it down. "She and her husband had captured a Mudblood. I tortured her for hours" – a smile ghosted over her lips as she thought of the imbecile's screams – "and killed her."

Mortis looked a little unnerved now. "How did you, er, torture her?"

"With my wand," she replied seriously.

Its anxiety quickly turned into relief and amusement, as it roared with laughter. "Good one," it gasped. Bellatrix smiled, as well. Who knew Muggles could be so delightfully vicious? "What's a Mudblood?"

"Insects," explained Bellatrix, taking a sip from her tea.

"I've never heard of the species before," said Eli, frowning.

"Yes, well," she replied impatiently. "Now that we've established I _am_ a psychotic killer, are you coming home with me?" If this dragged on any longer, she might just _Imperio_ the thing and be done with it. But Imperiused pets always were such a bore.

"You're eager," it said, grinning.

"I've already bought a collar and a leash," nodded Bellatrix. Mortis choked. "Are you dying?" She felt mild concern tug at her. She sighed, realising how attached she already was to her little Muggle with very nice hair. And skin. Its face was a very unpleasant red right now, and though Bellatrix had no idea why, she took it as a good sign. Dead people were generally pale.

"No," it managed. "I'm going to be honest here, I've never done anything like that before."

"It's alright," she soothed. "All you have to do is follow my orders, and I won't have to kill you."

"That's encouraging," it muttered.

"So, let's go?" Bellatrix gave it her most welcoming smile.

Mortis gulped, looking suddenly fearful.

* * *

"Remember what we practised?" said Bellatrix. Mortis nodded. "Let's try it again, then. One, two, three… Muahahahahahahaha!"

"MUA-HA-HA-HA-HAH!" her pet repeated.

She scowled. " _No_ , not like that. You need to connect the syllables together and let it all flow! 'Hahahaha', not 'ha-ha-ha'! You sound like you've just flown a hundred rounds around a Quidditch Pitch. And it ends with a 'ha', not a 'hah'. We're trying to sound evil here, not idiotic."

"I think you're doing plenty fine by yourself," sulked Mortis. "Can we go inside? It's cold."

Bellatrix resisted the urge to _Crucio_ the little beast. Why did Muggles have to be so _difficult_? "Not yet, I need to make sure you're in top condition to be presented to my Lord."

It looked alarmed. "My Lord? Oh, my God, are we meeting your Dad? Please tell me we're not. This is our _first_ date, are you crazy?"

"Yes," replied Bellatrix easily. "Though the Dark Lord is not my father, but my master."

"Oh," it let out a sigh of relief. "This is just more of your weird kinky shit, isn't it?"

"Kinky?" said Bellatrix, furrowing her eyebrows. Mortis opened its mouth to explain but she cut him off. "It does not matter. What is more important is you practice your evil cackle again. Quickly, now."

"Then we can go inside?" it asked hopefully.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Yes, then we can go inside."

"Awesome," grinned Mortis. "Alright… MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Ooh," she squealed. "That was _perfect._ I'll give you a big treat for that later."

"Does this treat have anything to do with the collar and leash?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

Bellatrix pushed open the manor doors, and Mortis let out a low whistle. "This all looks… expensive." They walked through the main entrance and down the dark hallway that was decorated with old artworks and relics. Bellatrix led them to a stop at the door to the dining hall turned throne room.

"This is my sister's home – Malfoy Manor," said the dark-haired witch.

"Where you tortured the, ah, Mudblood?"

Bellatrix beamed. "Yes, you _remembered_." She patted it on its cheek. "You're such a good Muggle," she cooed. "Yes, you are. Yes, you are."

Mortis shifted a little. "Cool, uh, now what?"

"Now," said Bellatrix ominously. "We meet the Dark Lord."

"Was that a Star Wars reference?"

She looked at him. "Star Wars?" she said, aghast. "There is another Dark Lord?"

"Dark Lord of Sith? No?"

"An imposter!" spat Bellatrix.

Mortis was about to explain to her that _no_ , the Dark Lord of Sith was not _real_ , but Bellatrix threw open the door to the throne room and stalked inside, fury in her eyes.

"My Lord!" she cried, throwing herself down onto the floor. "I have learnt of one who intends to usurp your throne – he has taken the name and mantle of Dark Lord!"

The real Dark Lord screeched in anger. "Who is he?"

Bellatrix looked up, hooded eyes wide. "The Dark Lord of Sith, my Lord."

Her Lord blinked, and seemed to deflate, much to Bellatrix's confusion. "Oh. Him."

"You know him, my Lord?"

He cleared his throat. "I know of him."

"Then, my Lord," beseeched Bellatrix. "Why have you not taken steps to remove this fool? Why does he still live?"

"Well," said the Dark Lord, looking deeply uncomfortable. "He is… he isn't real, Bella."

"But how can he not be?" she demanded. "Even my pet knows of him!"

"Your pet?" he repeated, confused. It took him a moment to realise his question was echoed by another. "Who is that?" he screeched, pointing a thin finger at the man standing at the doorway. His red eyes widened as he took in her pet's Muggle attire. "You dare, Bella? You dare bring filth into my presence?"

"Hey!" said Mortis indignantly.

"My Lord," said Bellatrix. "This is my pet, Mortis –"

"Eli," the vermin interjected.

"– whom I intend to keep."

"No!" screeched the Dark Lord in horror. "No more pets! No more!"

"You cannot stop me!" said the Death Eater defiantly. "Even if you take it away from me, I will keep finding more to bring in. Besides, I thought you would be fine with it. It knows how to take care of itself, it doesn't leave its mess everywhere, and it can shower by itself."

"It's like you think I'm an infant," said Mortis.

"Hush, my pet," said Bellatrix, glancing at it. "Mistress is talking."

"I'm not your pet!"

"Of course you aren't," she said soothingly. Turning back around, she rolled her eyes at her Lord. He let out a reluctant snicker.

"I _saw_ that."

"Mortis!" snapped Bellatrix.

" _Eli_."

She ignored it. "You won't get a treat if you keep interrupting me."

"SILENCE!" screamed the Dark Lord.

"Ooh," said Bellatrix. "A scream, instead of a screech this time. Congratulations, my Lord."

"Thank you," he replied absently. "Bella, your Muggle is escaping."

" _Mortis_!"

The Dark Lord sighed. " _Accio_ ," he intoned. Her beloved pet, halfway out the door, rushed through the air and landed, head-first, at her Master's feet. Bellatrix rushed forwards and crouched down in front of him.

"Are you okay?" she crooned, running her fingers through his soft hair.

Mortis looked up at her, suddenly pale. "What the hell just happened?"

Bellatrix glared up at the Dark Lord. "You've addled his brains!" she accused.

"It was already addled from spending time with you," muttered the Dark Lord, massaging his temples.

"But, my Lord," whined Bellatrix. "That's _mean._ "

"My brains aren't addled!" snapped Mortis, lurching away from her.

"Mortis," tried the Death Eater.

" _No_ ," it said angrily. "My name is _Eli._ And I'm not your pet. And I'm _leaving._ I've had _enough_!"

The Dark Lord looked at it curiously. "When was the breaking point?"

"I don't _know_ , maybe it's the fact that this lunatic thinks that I'm her pet, and I'm starting to think that collars and leashes don't involve _anything_ sexual!" it said, sounding increasingly more frantic. "And I don't know what you are to her – lord or father or something else that's fucking _weird –_ but, dude, your face is fucking creepy! I mean, red eyes. What the fuck is up with that? And where the _fuck_ is your nose?"

The Dark Lord looked affronted. "My _face_ is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It's not my fault vermin like you don't understand art. Bella, keep your little pest in line."

"You're feisty," said Bellatrix, nodding approvingly at Mortis. "But it's time to stop this little rebellion and come back to Mummy."

"Oh," sighed the Dark Lord. "You're one of _those._ "

"My Lord?" asked Bellatrix, looking confused.

He gestured vaguely at her, looking pained. "Those… 'Mummy' types. I should have known."

"What's wrong with that?" she said, indignant.

"Oh, it's escaping again."

"MORTIS!"

* * *

"Bella," said the Dark Lord, eyes narrowed.

"My Lord?" she said innocently.

"Your vegetables."

"What about them?"

"You haven't eaten them."

"I don't like them."

"You still have to eat them."

" _No._ "

"Bella!" he snapped, losing patience. "If you don't eat your vegetables you won't get any pudding!"

She looked horrified. "But – no – cruel – _my Lord_!"

He smiled triumphantly. "Eat them."

Bellatrix glanced down at her plate, pouting. Then, her eyes lit up. "Mortis!" she hissed, when the Dark Lord wasn't paying attention. Her lovely pet looked up from where it sat on the ground next to her seat.

"Yes, Mistress," it said dully. She frowned. It always looked so down these days.

"Eat the vegetables."

"Yes, Mistress."

She ruffled its hair. "Good Muggle," she praised. "I'll give you a treat later."

It perked up a little and paused on chewing a mouthful of lettuce. "The one with the ruffles and the jelly beans?"

"Yes."

It smiled a little and cleaned off her plate obediently. She quickly replaced her plate in front of her. "There," she said proudly. The Dark Lord glanced at the gleaming china, and looked at her suspiciously.

Finally, he said, "Very well."

She beamed.

The pudding that night was glorious.


	3. Start Again

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: Written for QLFC Round 2.**

 **Team: Ballycastle Bats**

 **Position: Beater 2**

 **Prompt: Write about a character's hate for HoM.**

 **Optional prompts:**

 **(dialogue) 'It happened again, what do I do?"**

 **(quote) 'The starting point of all achievement is desire'.**

 **(word) throw**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It's all the same. It's comforting, but at the same time, irritating.

The grounds look the same, the few sections of the castle that was rendered into dust look untouched by the Final Battle.

It's clear to see the amount of resources the Ministry pooled into restoring the ancient school back to its former glory.

You're surrounded by laughter. It's all a joke on you. It's all whispered, mocking words at your expense. You remember when you were the one pointing. You remember when you were the one who was laughing.

You wonder why you even bothered coming back.

It's easy to find the answer, when the sound of all these imbeciles' laughter makes you nostalgic, bitter, happy, depressed, angry and relieved all at the same time. The dominant emotion, however, is relief.

You're relieved you aren't sitting at home, listening to silence. You're relieved you are away from that too-large manor, where your mother drinks herself to oblivion and sleeps in the guest bedroom, and your father's absence is felt as suffocatingly as the cold of Azkaban. It makes sense – it's where he is, after all.

You're relieved you hear something other than sobbing and screaming and hysterical giggling that hints at a weakening grasp on sanity.

 _Thank Merlin,_ you think, when one of your schoolmates says something particularly nasty about you, and the rest of them laugh in delight. Hatred bubbles in you; you bask in the feeling of it. You haven't felt so alive since the end of the war. _Thank Merlin._

* * *

You sit at the Slytherin table. The whole House is silent. Everyone looks sombre, as though this is a funeral march, especially the seventh and eighth years – the ones most involved in the war.

The only exceptions are the Greengrass sisters. They look calm, at ease. You always thought that they were idiotic, Mudblood-loving bints.

You're only half-right.

They have friends, after all, in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff; even a few in Gryffindor. They're the only Slytherins not universally reviled. You're treated as though you've caught Spattergroit.

The Headmistress stands to give her speech, after the first-years are sorted. You watch the new DADA teacher stand and give a shy nod. You forget her name almost instantly, because all you can think of when you see her is Professor Snape and how she _isn't_ him.

The only real surprise is the new History of Magic teacher. For a moment, you feel a twinge of anticipation; you have always wondered what history taught by a semi-interesting – and most importantly – _alive_ person would be like. But his eyes land on the Slytherin table and harden. Just like that, that spark of hope is snuffed out of existence.

It's always the same thing. It's the only thing their society has ever known.

Prejudice. Discrimination. Hatred.

You feel stupid for expecting anything different.

Again, you wonder if you made the right choice to come back here.

A hand slips into yours. You glance down and see Draco's pale digits gripping you tightly. He gives you a weak smile, full of false reassurance and faltering bravado.

You smile back. "No weaknesses," you whisper to him.

"No weaknesses," he agrees.

You tilt your chin up and push your spine straight and stiff and proud.

* * *

You can't sleep at night, so you slip out of bed to sit in the common room. You head for the warm seat by the fireplace, only to be distracted by a whispered conversation, punctuated with choked sobs.

The source of the sound, you discover, are the new first-years. Five of them.

"I'm scared," one of them says. "Mum's going to kill me for getting into Slytherin. She'll call me a Dark Wizard. She'll _hate_ me."

"Two of the older Gryffindors have already come up to me and shot spells at me," says another, looking down at his hands. "I don't know how to stop it. I… I only found out about magic two months ago."

You draw in a sharp breath, because you never thought you would see the day when a Mudblood was Sorted into Slytherin. Unfortunately, they hear the sound, and all five heads snap up to stare at you.

There is a tense silence, where they look at you as though you are about to _Crucio_ them.

"You want some advice," you say, finally. You look each of them in the eye, even the Mudblood. "You're stuck here. And if you don't get your shit together, you'll be eaten alive. Either by the other Houses or by us. So throw it all away – your innocence, your naiveté, your foolish hopes and your silly dreams. Throw it all away, and do what you need to for survival. Otherwise, you're fucked."

To their credit, they don't even flinch when you swear. Just give you wide-eyed looks. You don't say anything more, only sweep away back to your bed.

You lie awake the whole night.

* * *

History of Magic quickly becomes your most hated class. Professor Fogger – or Professor Fucker, as Draco likes to call him – does little more than glare at Slytherins and praise Gryffindors.

But it's more than that. You flip through the textbook in one of your first classes. After a while, you begin to realise it's all the same. Substitute the names, the dates and the reasons, and you see that all those goblin rebellions and wizarding wars are just repetitions.

Twenty-three Dark Lords in the past century. All of them dead. You wonder why the most recent Dark Lord even tried.

How dull.

* * *

"Parkinson," sneers the infamous Mudblood of the Golden Trio. You grimace at the sight. It doesn't suit her. She only looks like she is trying too hard.

"Granger," you return. She looks surprised, as though she half-expects you to call her Mudblood to her face. You roll your eyes, marvelling at the utter stupidity of the side that managed to win the war.

"Let's get started, shall we?" says Granger, sniffing as she slams a massive tome down onto the library table. Dust flies up in a cloud. You wrinkle your nose, but say nothing.

It's been two months since the start of the school year. Fogger assigned the whole class a group project, with partners picked out of a hat. At least, you reflect, you get Granger. Draco got Longbottom. Though, you suppose, he isn't the same, snivelling mess he has been for the past years anymore. "Goblin Rebellion of 1824," you drawl as she takes a seat.

"Yes." She pauses. "You do know what happened, right?"

You fight the urge to sneer at her. "They got upset, they fought, they lost. Now, they're still guarding banks. Easy enough."

Granger pinches the bridge of her nose and, you smirk. "This is ridiculous. I swear to Merlin, Parkinson, if you try to slack off and make me do all the work…" she trails off threateningly.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "What will you do?"

Her eyes flash, and she purses her lips. She says nothing.

"I'm terrified," you say. In truth, you are a little frightened. You have heard stories about Granger's role in the war. Dragons and goblins and bank robberies. She opens her mouth to retort, but you cut her off. "Let's just do the research, then we can both go our separate ways. Everyone is happy, yes?"

Granger nods stiffly and pulls out a piece of parchment.

Distantly, you wonder if she will ever pull the stick out of her arse. You doubt it, since even Bellatrix Lestrange didn't manage it.

* * *

You stiffen when Weasley comes up to Granger in the library and smiles at her. When he looks up and sees you, his lips immediately twist into a scowl.

"What's she doing here?" he demands.

Granger shrugs. "Assignment for Professor Fogger."

"And you picked _her_ to partner with?" He sounds incredulous. You grit your teeth, but you don't say anything.

"It was random," she replies, glancing at you.

"Bloody hell," mutters Weasley. "I'm sorry, 'Mione."

He sounds so pitying that you snap. "I know that you are more on the dim side, but you _do_ realise that I'm sitting right here?"

He sneers back in response. "Of course I realise. Doesn't mean I care – especially about coward Death Eaters like you."

You stiffen at the accusation. "I never took the Mark."

"So?" he scoffs. "Only difference is that at least your father had the decency to go to Azkaban."

You don't show how much the comment actually _hurt._ Instead, you put a familiar, well-practiced sneer on your face. "Witty, scathing and hurtful. Bravo, Weasley, there's a Slytherin in you yet. I do wonder how many brain cells that used up, though. Shocking, really, I didn't think you had more than two." You stand and shove your books into your bag.

To Granger, you say coolly, "I'll write up a list about the implications and effects of the Goblin War on the magical and Muggle world. We can discuss it more next time, preferably when I'm not at risk of catching incompetence and idiocy from your pet weasel."

As you walk away, Weasley calls after you, "You don't have to worry about that, Parkinson – nobody can catch what they've already got."

* * *

One of the first year Slytherins come up to you when you're alone in the Common Room at night. They've been doing it ever since that first night months ago, somehow deciding you are the best person to go to for advice.

You fight a laugh at the thought.

You recall the time when you thought it was a good idea to try and offer up Potter in front of all his supporters.

But you don't turn them away when they come.

"It happened again," says Pascal, the first year boy. "What do I do?"

"Where?" you ask.

"Third floor corridor."

"Did anyone see?"

He pauses. "Er, Professor Fogger, I think."

You scowl. "Professor Fucker won't lift a finger to help. He won't back you up if you complain, either. Do you need healing?"

"It's just a small burn," he says. You beckon him anyway. He obediently holds his arm out. Ugly red boils stretch across the skin. You wince at the sight of it. _Small_ burn?

" _Salutem_ ," you whisper. He relaxes in your grip as the healing spell washes over him. The boils fade away until all that is left is a faint shade of pink.

"Thanks, Pans," says Pascal, pulling away.

You glare at him. "Don't call me that, Mudblood."

He only laughs. "Whatever, Pans."

You wave him away and sink back into your armchair. "Brat."

* * *

"You could be nicer, you know," says Granger, glaring. You almost start laughing.

"Why the fuck _should_ I be nicer?" you ask, giving her a pointed look. "I'm surrounded by idiotic Mudbloods, after all."

She swells up with indignant fury. She reminds you disturbingly of Umbridge. "You know, Parkinson," she bites out. "Your side _lost_ the war, if you remember. You lost to a bunch of half-bloods and Mudbloods."

"I remember who won the war, _Mudblood_ ," you nearly snarl. This, you remember too clearly. It's in how you never receive a letter from your mother. It's in the way all your schoolmates look at you, like you are dirt beneath their shoes. It's in the Daily Prophet, splashed across the headlines – 'Parkinson Family Head Dead in Azkaban'. "It's difficult to forget when people keep coming up to me and _congratulating_ me on my father's death."

She flinches and you feel a vindictive pleasure in the stricken look on her bookworm face. "Here," you say, throwing a stack of parchment at her. "My part of the assignment. Hopefully, we will never have to speak to each other again." You stalk off, not even bothering to see if she caught it.

By the sound of her nasal squawk, you doubt it.

* * *

Sometimes, you think Zabini got it right. He never came back after the war. He never contacted any of you. You've heard rumours he's left the Wizarding World completely.

" _Stupefy_!" You aim the red beam of light at the sixth-year Ravenclaw. She dodges, and you prepare to fire another spell.

" _Incarcerous_!" Too late, you barely turn before you feel the ropes wrap around your body, so tight you feel like you're suffocating. Yes, Zabini definitely got it right.

"Death Eater spawn," spits the sixth-year you shot the Stunning Spell at. You glare at her and struggle over to Pascal, who is lying on the ground, unconscious, blood dripping from his nose. "See how you like being treated like scum?" She lashes out her foot and slams it into your gut.

It drives all the air out of your body, and you can barely breath. They advance on Pascal's still form. You try to shield him. "Get away from him," you wheeze out.

"Oh, look," laughs the other one. Dimly, you recognise him as Zacharias Smith. "Death Eater bitch has got a heart."

You spit at him. He swears and backhands you. "You know," you say, ignoring the throbbing pain. "For a bunch of people who hate Death Eaters so much, you're really acting like them."

He rolls his eyes. "Death Eaters torture for no reason. This? This is re-education."

"That's what the Carrows said when they locked up first-years in the dungeon," you shoot back.

He looks furious, and you prepare yourself for another blow.

Two red lights shoot past from your right and land neatly on your attackers. It knocks them out cold. "Shit," you hear Draco's familiar voice. "Pansy, are you alright?"

"They need the Hospital Wing," another one says. You try to look up to see who it is, but you're too sore. You think it's Longbottom though. It's hard to tell without the stuttering.

"What about _them_?" asks Draco, sounding disgusted.

Longbottom sounds equally disgusted. "I'll talk to McGonagall later."

"Draco," you mumble.

"Thank Merlin." You feel his hands on your face. "What happened, Pans?"

You manage to tell them how you found a Disarmed Pascal being jinxed and hexed helplessly. You tell them how you tried to fight them off, but they overpowered you.

At the end of it, you choke out, "It's all the same, Draco." Tears gather behind your closed eyelids. "Nothing will change. It's always going to be the _same._ "

He nods, soothing you with a hand, rubbing circles on your back. He understands, better than most. He is probably the only person in Hogwarts more hated than you.

It's all the same. History repeating itself.

* * *

Your remaining months at Hogwarts are uneventful. Smith and the Ravenclaw girl got two weeks' detention. _Not enough_ , bitterness sings in you. _Not enough, not enough._

At graduation, Granger gives a speech. You don't pay much attention to it, except when you hear her quote some Muggle author – the starting point of all achievement is desire, and whatnot.

As much as you hate to agree with a Muggle – and Granger – you do.

It's written in history. Desire takes people to the top of the world, until someone with stronger desire comes and topples them. It's all about wanting; wanting to be strong, powerful or famous.

You look inside yourself and try to find that want.

There isn't much of it. You've thrown it all away.

* * *

It's easier to watch the world on the sidelines. It gives you perspective.

You watch as society rebuilds itself, with Muggle-borns and half-bloods on top, and purebloods scorned. Even Longbottom, war hero he is, faces it. You catch up with him occasionally. Once, he admitted it, too.

"When they hear I'm a pureblood," he slurred, already well on his way to drunk, "they look at me like they think I get off on killing and torturing. Someone outright spat in my face and said her son died because of scum like me."

"It's always going to be the same," you told him, recalling words you spoke long ago. "History repeating itself."

"I didn't get it when you said that last time," he mumbled. "I get it now."

You hated History of Magic in Hogwarts and you hate it still. Hate that it isn't history. Not really. How can it be, when it is all past, present and future? It's all so repetitive, all so dreary. Just an endless cycle of prejudice – against goblins, against Muggle-borns and now, against purebloods.

So you watch the world from the sidelines, as it plays out all over again. You watch as the world drowns itself in meaningless discrimination and hate. You watch as the world kills itself slowly, and you find you can't care less.


	4. Death's Gift

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: Round 3 of QLFC!**

 **Word Count: 2751-3000**

 **Prompt: Bats**

 **Optional Prompts:**

 **(occasion) first day of school;**

 **(quote) 'All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us.' – JRR Tolkien.**

* * *

"Death loves you, Tom Riddle," she whispers into his ear. Her hand slides beneath his shirt, and he fights the urge to flinch away from her icy touch. "Why do you fear her so?"

"I fear nothing," he says, but it sounds weak even to his ears. She laughs, a sound that is both beautiful and chilling.

"All mortals fear something."

He can't even bite his lip to stop the words from spilling out. The truth is pulled from him before he even realises that he is speaking; it slips off his tongue as easily as water rolls off steel, despite his mind screaming its protests. "I am no mortal."

The helplessness washes over him like nausea. Dark spots dance in front of him, as the rising panic in his chest threatens to break free from its feeble constraints.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she says, and he can hear the condescending smile in her voice. A cold hand grabs hold of his chin with inhuman strength and forces it up.

His wild eyes dart around before settling on her. His heart stutters at the sight of her eyes, a chilling blue filled with cruel amusement he has not seen from her before. Her lips are curved up into a pleased smirk, and her dark curls swept up onto her head elaborately, stray locks framing her face – her face that is bare inches away from his.

He swallows audibly, unable to stop his fear and uncertainty from leaking through.

Her eyes light up, as though she can sense his fear. _Like an animal_ , he thinks spitefully.

Her smile takes on a much more predatory edge and that spite flees him.

Not an animal. A beast.

"Say the rest, Tom Riddle," she says, pressing her cool lips to the corner of his mouth. "One word. I'll even give you a gift, if you do so." She pulls out a small vial filled with dark, swirling liquid.

"Why would I want a gift from you?" he asks, even as he stares at the vial. He doesn't know what potion it is, but he can feel the magic that radiates from it. It prickles across his skin; it's unlike anything he has ever known before.

She smiles, and trails butterfly kisses over the vein that pulses in his throat. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "It's very simple, Tom Riddle. This is the only potion in the world that requires three whole, live bats." She pulls away to look him in the eye. " _Dic Mihi Mors._ "

* * *

"Hello," he said, a ready, polite smile on his lips. "Are you alright? You look lost." The girl in front of him was not one he had seen before. Yet, she looked to be around his age.

She looked up. Absently, Tom thought that she was rather beautiful. She had the aristocratic features of old pureblood families – angular cheekbones and arched eyebrows that lent her a proud and dignified air – though it was not likely she was one; he had made sure he was familiar with all of the Ancient or Noble (or both) European houses. Even so, she looked every bit a pureblood heiress.

"I'm afraid I am lost," she spoke softly. "I have an appointment with Headmaster Dippet in his office. However, he forgot to give me any directions."

Inwardly, Tom sneered at the Headmaster's incompetency. "Ah," he said instead, arranging his features into a look of mild amusement. "Yes, Professor Dippet can be absent-minded at times. I'll take you there."

She gave him a smile. "I am grateful," she said.

"It is my pleasure," said Tom, holding out his elbow, which she took gracefully. Deliberately leading her through a longer route to Dippet's office, he began his subtle interrogation, "My name is Tom Riddle, by the way."

"Tom Riddle. The Head Boy," she said. When his name left her lips, her voice was layered with something indescribable. It sounded dangerously close to fascination, but… softer. He eyes flickered to her, yet her face was smooth as marble, no scruples; only polite interest. "Professor Dippet mentioned you in our correspondence. I believe he referred to you as his 'star pupil'."

Tom chuckled. "Professor Dippet is too kind."

"Oh, but from what I've heard, your reputation is more than deserved. Your, ah, role in the situation with the Chamber of Secrets was admirable."

The air shifted slightly as he tensed. There was something in her voice that made the sentence far less innocent than it seemed to be. Even though her tone was light and conversational, and her posture open and relaxed; her hesitant phrasing instantly set him on alert.

He cleared his throat, loosening his taut muscles slightly, though he was nowhere near as comfortable as he had been before. "I was merely fortunate to have caught the perpetrator with his guard down." He didn't let his contempt for the half-breed oaf seep into his voice.

"I see." For a moment, Tom had an awful, plummeting feeling in his stomach at her words. For a moment, he wondered if she really _did_ see.

Then, the moment passed, and Tom chastised himself for acting like a fool. "Forgive me, but I don't believe I'd gotten your name."

She tilted her face upwards, wearing a look of vague embarrassment. "My apologies, Mr. Riddle." The corner of his lips tightened – such a minute change, a nearly imperceptible breach in his mask for only the barest of seconds – and she paused. "Do you dislike being called Mr. Riddle?"

He fought to push the shock and discomfort down and lock it away for the moment. "Mr. Riddle is fine. I just prefer being called Tom," he said.

"Very well, then, Tom," she said, her blue eyes seeming to pierce through him. To his horror, he almost _fidgeted_ under her gaze. "As for my name, it is Giltine de Rossi. Since you have allowed me the courtesy of calling you by your given name, it is only fair I do the same."

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion. "This may seem rude, but if I may ask – I do not believe Giltine is an Italian name?"

"It isn't," was all she said, before drawing to a stop. With a jolt, Tom realised they had arrived in front of the gargoyle statue that was the entrance to the Headmaster's office. More time had passed than he had thought. "It was a pleasure, Tom. Again, I am most grateful for your assistance."

"Not at all, Giltine," he hesitated over her name. "You were delightful company."

When she smiled this time, it was almost blinding.

"I am glad."

As he walked away, Tom realised, with no small amount of discomfort, that she had somehow managed to deflect all his probes. It seemed he had somehow become the questioned, instead of the questioner.

* * *

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom clapped along politely, a bland smile hiding his curiosity. Giltine walked to their table, her eyes zeroing in on him. "Hello again, Tom Riddle," she said, once she was close enough. All his Slytherins' ears seemed to twitch as they tried to act as nonchalantly as possible, while still listening in on the conversation.

Inwardly, Tom sighed – the House of cunning and subtlety, indeed. They were practically panting for information.

"Giltine de Rossi," he said, smothering his surprise. Her cool eyes danced with unnerving amusement. "You're a student."

"Indeed I am. You sound shocked," she said, arching an eyebrow. He was uncomfortably reminded why yesterday's brief exchange with her set his eye off twitching for an hour afterwards.

"You seem too beautiful to be a mere student," he replied with a light smirk. He glanced at Avery, narrowing his eyes. His housemate quickly shuffled down the bench to make space.

He was surprised again when Giltine laughed, a melodic sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and slipped into the recently vacated seat. "Oh, Tom," she said. "You are a charming one, aren't you?"

"I am just voicing my sincerest opinion," said Tom.

She chuckled, and triumph shot through him. She was a mystery, this Giltine, and a potential threat from the ease with which she saw through him. Charming her, as he did so many others, was the first step into unravelling her secrets and finding her weaknesses.

"What brings you to Hogwarts?" he asked, determined not to leave this time without more information.

"A change in scenery," she answered, just as the food magically appeared onto the table in front of her.

"From?" he pressed.

"Italy," she said, buttering her toast deftly.

Tom suppressed his frustration.

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to escort me to class after breakfast?" asked Giltine. "I would hate to be late on my first day of school. And, well, as you already know, I do not know my way around very well."

He nearly jumped at the opportunity, but restrained himself with a smile. The Slytherins who knew him better seemed to shiver at the glint of teeth in it, but Giltine paid no mind, too busy spooning baked beans onto her plate. "I do not mind at all," he said. "May I see your schedule? Perhaps we have the same classes for some."

"Of course," she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out her timetable. He glanced down at it, and his eyes widened. "Is something wrong?" He wondered if he was the only one who heard the faint note of amusement in her voice. But when he looked at her, all he saw was concern and confusion.

Tom cleared his throat and handed her back her schedule. "No. I was only surprised – your schedule is identical to mine." All around, the Slytherin students turned and stared at the latest addition to their House. It was well-known that Tom took all subjects available, short of Muggle Studies – and he was the only student to do so, because he was the only student whom the teachers believed could survive the workload.

Giltine gave a delighted smile. "But that's wonderful!" she said.

"Indeed," he said, with a forced grin that looked anything but at home on his usually serene face. "We have Potions first. Perhaps you could be my partner for today?"

"It would be my pleasure," she said.

Her smile became edged, but Tom did not notice.

* * *

His dark eyes are wide as they stare at the little potion. Settled comfortably on his lap, she merely smirks, wrapping a thick, dark lock of hair around her finger. "You lie," he says flatly.

"It is rude to call a lady a liar, Tom Riddle," she says, a giggle escaping her.

His hands, bound behind his chair, jerk. "I think we have passed rudeness long ago, Giltine." He eyes her coldly. "Is that even your name?"

"Giltine, yes. De Rossi? No."

His jaw clenches as he hears the truth he already knows.

She gives him a sly look and shifts on his lap. The friction pulls a growl from him. "I grow impatient, Tom Riddle. Give me one word. Just one word, and this potion is yours." She presses the cold glass against his lips. "It's real – I swear on my magic; this potion is the one known as _Dic Mihi Mors._ " As she speaks the vow, he stiffens as her hot, intense magic flares and seeps into every corner of the room.

He cannot stop the look of disbelief from showing on his face. It is the genuine potion. It has to be. She swore on her _magic._

"One word," she murmurs repeatedly as she runs her cold hands over the length of his body. "One word, Tom Riddle."

He chokes down a gasp when she bites into the side of his neck, sucking gently. He shuts his eyes and tries to fight the heat that coils in his stomach.

She pulls away. His eyes open, and he is greeted her reddened, plump lips and her eyes darkened with something _greedy_ , a consuming fire. Self-loathing thuds through his veins like a poison for his near inability to think.

"Horcrux," he breathes. " _Get off of me._ "

She claps happily, and pushes the vial into his shaking hands. No dancing around this time – she kisses him, hard and passionate, and slips her tongue out to stroke his bottom lip. When he is breathless and dazed, she peels herself off his body and stands.

Her victorious smirk when a grunt of protest escapes him makes him want to _Crucio_ her.

* * *

Three months after Giltine came to Hogwarts, Tom found himself in a hidden alcove with her, reading as he idly played with her hair. She leaned against him, her quill scratching as she scribbled down facts about the most impossibly obscure potions he had ever seen.

He peered over her head, trying to ignore the faint but sweet scent that wafted up to his nose, originating from a purple flower she had tucked behind her ear. "It's better to dice the bat wings," he said as his eyes scanned her notes on the brewing of a potion that caused the user's hair to turn into snakes.

She glanced up at him. "Why?"

"Bats have very little inherent magic," he replied, reluctantly surprised she did not know this. "In smaller pieces, more magic seeps from the wings."

Giltine hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps."

She made no move to change her notes. Tom twitched.

She caught it. She never missed anything.

"Oh, my dear," she laughed. "Do not worry." Tom scowled. "I know what I am doing; this potion requires the bats to be whole."

Now, he frowned. He wasn't aware that any such potion existed. He should know – he had read every book in the Hogwarts library. All potions books, dating back to the time of the Founders, agreed that any part of a bat used must be diced finely for it to be of any worth. "Forgive me," he said, dropping a kiss on her temple. "I trust you."

Pale pink dusted Giltine's high cheeks lightly. Her lips twitched into a small smile, as she tipped her head back. "And I, you."

 _A lie_ , he knew. But it mattered not; he lied, too, after all.

* * *

She pricks his finger gently with a silver blade. A drop of blood slides into the vial of _Dic Mihi Mors_. The dark liquid bubbles briefly, before stilling.

"Now, we wait," she says, settling back into her chair.

"How long?"

She shrugs. "You have not answered my question, Tom Riddle," she says instead.

He bites back a retort. "What question?"

"Why do you fear Death?" Giltine leans forward. "You, who have gone far beyond what many mortals dare to do. You already have two, don't you? And you plan to have more."

"I only have one," lies Tom.

She gives him a faintly pitying look. "That was not even a good lie, Tom Riddle. Do not worry. I have no intention of stopping your plans. Nor will I interfere after this. I have no interest in your… _Horcruxes_ ," her lips curls as she says the word.

"Then why are you here?" he demands.

"To see you," she says simply. "I was interested. Still am. I want to understand why you fear death so much. You cannot avoid it forever, Tom Riddle, yet you will do anything to delay it as best as you can."

"I already am immortal," he sneers.

"Perhaps," says Giltine non-committedly. "Perhaps not."

"There is no 'perhaps' about it. My Horcruxes will sustain me forever."

She turns and looks him straight in the eye. For the first time, Tom sees the stirrings of a horrible, cold fury in her. He swallows nervously. "You taunt Death. Death does not take kindly to being taunted. Have care, Tom Riddle, and know this – none can escape Death forever. Your actions have drawn Death's attention and ire."

"You speak as if Death is a sentient entity," he observes.

Giltine ignores him. "For one so disdainful of Muggles, you lack their wisdom." Again, she ignores his scoffing. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us. You would do well to know this. And so far, your choices have only served to shorten your time further. The clock is ticking, Tom Riddle. The candle of your life burns lower and lower."

Tom lurches forward, his own fury bursting through. "What do you know, you mad _bitch_!" His cheeks flush with anger. "You _fucking_ – filthy fucking _liar_!" he screams out a string of obscenities.

Her only response is to roll her eyes, which only sets him off more.

"Oh, look," she cuts across him smoothly. "It's ready."

That silences him.

She holds up the vial in the air. The potion within is clear, with a faint, red tinge. "Are you ready?" she arches an eyebrow at him.

Breathing heavily, he gives her a jerky nod.

She smashes it onto the ground.

He leans forward eagerly. The liquid shifts and stirs and moves across the cold stone floor, arranging itself into dates and letters.

He frowns as they form more than one line. His jaw drops as they continue forming lines after the second, after the third, the fourth… on and on, until it reaches the eighth. The last line, in elegant cursive that says '2 May, 1998', is blood red. In fact, a few of the lines before that one says '2 May, 1998', as well.

"What the fuck does this mean?" he demands, eyes wild.

"It means what it means," she says.

He is transfixed by the dates before him. The gears of his mind turn and turn, before his eyes widen and his horror flashes across his face.

"Death is painless, Tom Riddle." His head jerks up, only to find a wand pointed at his head. "Do not fret."

"You fucking –"

" _Obliviate._ "

* * *

When he wakes, Tom remembers the ghost of cool lips on his own.

He glances at the ground. A dim image surfaces in his mind, but it bleeds away before he can grasp it.

He flexes his wrists, wondering why they are sore, why he is sleeping in a chair in an empty classroom. He thinks he has had a dream about poisoned kisses, bats and potions. But he isn't sure.

Only a name remains, a name that sends a shiver down his spine whenever he speaks it.

Giltine.

Death.


	5. The Phoenix's First Companion

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

* * *

 **[A/N]: This is written for QLFC Round 4, Creature Comforts, in which I play Beater 2 for Ballycastle Bats. The prompts are:**

 **Magical Creature: Phoenix**

 **Additional prompts:**

 **(dialogue) "You know, I don't really need you."**

 **(image) of sunset, snowy mountains and a river.**

 **(song) 'Born to Die' by Lana del Rey.**

* * *

 **Word Count: 2778**

* * *

The girl held her bow cautiously before her as she approached.

He eyed her, blinking curiously.

She smelled of forest and snow. Her eyes were focused and wary as she stepped closer and closer, until her arrow was pointed right in between his eyes. She scowled, as though displeased.

"Stupid bird," she muttered, twitching her weapon away and slinging her bow onto her back.

He glared, offended. Her eyes widened slightly, and uncertainty flickered in them.

"What are you anyway?" asked the human, lowering her hood. Her hair was the colour of fire – he liked that.

He sang a short tune in response.

"Doesn't help," she grumbled. "You ought to stay away from humans. You've got nice feathers. Fetch a nice price, you would." She eyed his red and gold plumage with a mix of awe and longing.

The bird flapped his wings, alarmed. She looked surprised again, but recovered quickly and smirked at him. "At least you have some sense." She glanced around, her dark eyes scanning the snowy forest. "You should go. I'm not the only one who hunts here, and most aren't as nice as me."

He cocked his head to the side, studying her. She was nice. She had nice hair. And a nice voice. His mother had told him when he had left his nest that if he could find a magical worthy of him, he should stay with them. The human had no magic, unfortunately, so he couldn't bind himself to her – but she was worthy; he could tell that much. Even though she held an arrow at him and insulted him, he could see the goodness in her heart beneath its hardened exterior, and see the kindness in her soul, untainted by the cruelty or bitterness present in so many others.

He would stay with her, he decided. He didn't need to bind his magic with hers. He could be her pet, though he felt a twinge of distaste at the thought.

The bird took to the air. With a few quick beats of his wings, he flew up and landed on her head, settling in contentedly. It wasn't as warm as fire, he noted with a touch of sulkiness, but it would do.

The human girl squawked angrily. He was uncomfortably reminded of a grumpy nest-mate of his that used to make that sound whenever any of the other nestlings so much as shifted. He clicked his beak disapprovingly at the girl.

"What are you doing, damn bird?" she demanded, her hands flailing about her head. He dodged most of them skilfully, but one smacked him right off. He chirped angrily as he flapped his wings. If he could cackle, he would have when his wing slapped her across the face.

The human yelped. "For the love of – _stop_ that!"

He did, landing on a nearby branch. He kept his tail pointing to her and his beak in the air. He heard her step towards him hesitantly, snow crunching beneath her boots. "Bird?" she asked after a moment. He didn't so much as twitch. "Bird!" Her shout echoed through the forest. He continued ignoring her.

She mumbled incoherently under her breath. He could guess none were flattering descriptions of him. "Do birds even have feelings?" she said to herself. He wasn't sure if she had intended for him to hear, but he heard it perfectly well anyway. He jerked his head around and glared fiercely. She flinched. "Apparently, then," she said.

The girl chewed on her lip before sighing. She squared her shoulders and jutted her chin out. "Fine. I'm _sorry_ ," she said reluctantly. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Or your… feelings. You surprised me, that's all."

He eyed her for a long moment, enjoying watching her face cycle through uncertainty and guilt and worry. Finally, he chirped, dipping his head in a sign of acceptance. Her face slackened with relief – until she caught his smug look.

She gasped. "You little – you did that on purpose!" she accused.

He tilted his head in feigned confusion. She scowled at him. "Arrogant bird."

He clicked his beak at her again, making her mouth twist in annoyance. Then, he flew back on top of her head, seating himself regally.

The human groaned. "Why didn't I just walk away?" she whispered to herself.

The bird pushed his beak higher into the air, looking as royal and proud as he could be, seated atop his throne of fire-coloured hair.

* * *

"I should probably give you a name."

He had stayed with the human for two months now. She had grumbled and complained every minute of it, but he could sense that she was secretly happy for the companionship. Her name, he had learnt, was Beda. She lived alone, though he wasn't sure why; humans were usually still in their nest at her age. Yet, she seemed to have left hers long ago, if her cluttered hut was any indication.

Beda threw a few more logs into the fire, and he hopped closer. He wasn't cold – he couldn't feel cold – but he liked the heat, so Beda always kept the fire going for him. Of course, she kept a constant stream of mumbling about temperamental and ungrateful birds as she did so.

She was strange that way.

"Do you have a name?" she asked, glancing at him. He shook his head. "Hmm. Alright, I'll think of one, then. Everyone ought to have a name."

He felt oddly touched, even if he didn't see the point in names, but only blinked in response. She eyed him thoughtfully.

Then, a smile tugged on her lips. "Alright, bird," she said, looking pleased. "What do you think of Fawkes? Strong and fierce."

He did his best approximation of a shrug.

"Fawkes it is, then," she said happily. "Now, go get some sleep. You've been looking awfully tired lately."

* * *

Fawkes stood completely still on the dusty, shadowed shelf, hoping that she would mistake him for one of her stuffed birds.

She threw open the door, throwing aside her bow and quiver. Her eyes darted around the hut, before finally landing on him. A feral snarl fell from her lips, and there was a gleam in her eyes that made Fawkes whimper.

" _There_ you are," she said, her tone vicious. "Now, care to explain yourself?"

Fawkes hopped back involuntarily, tossing her a pleading look.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "You know full well what you did, you blasted bird."

Fawkes chirped in protest.

" _And_?" she said, her cheeks reddening with anger. "It's _hunting_. When someone goes _hunting_ , they generally hunt for _animals_!"

He let out a mournful sound.

Beda snorted in disdain. "That's the way of life, Fawkes. If I don't hunt them down, something else is going to anyway. At least I make it a clean death."

He slumped sadly.

"Damn it, Fawkes," she huffed. "I know you don't like it, but you can't stop everything from dying."

Fawkes chirped, as if to ask why not.

Her face softened reluctantly when she saw his look of utter confusion. "Look, Fawkes, I need to eat. I know _you_ don't need to – which is very strange, by the way – but _I_ do. No plants grow on these mountains. It's all dead or buried so deep beneath the snow it would take a day's digging to find enough for half a meal. It's kill or starve, Fawkes. The world's cruel that way."

A small part of him nodded reluctantly at her words, but a larger part of him denied them. So Fawkes maintained the stiff defiance in his feathered body and refused to meet her gaze.

Her expression fell, but Fawkes never saw that.

* * *

Night fell, and Fawkes was still refusing to speak to Beda. She cast him furtive looks throughout her dinner, while he stared stoically out the window.

Finally, Beda sighed. "Can we talk?" Fawkes didn't respond.

She watched him for a long moment. The silence between them stretched thin, with only the low crackling of fire in the background.

She broke the silence. "I used to be sick a lot, did you know?" He jerked, then stilled _._ "Up until I was eight, Mama and Papa used to get potions from the witch market for me. They'd heal me for a while, but then I'd get sick again. Finally, Mama decided it was enough.

"They didn't know, but I heard them arguing. Mama said it'd be kinder to let me die than having to live through life always sick. Papa… Papa didn't want to give up on me, but Mama knew that if they spent any more money on me, they wouldn't have enough for the winter. They took me to see an old witch who owed them a favour, and asked her to read my future for me." Fawkes turned and stared at her. He felt an odd chill seep into him.

Beda closed her eyes, shivering at the memory. "Her exact words, I think, were: 'The sickness will leave you forever, and you will flourish in its absence. But you will know pain once more, and cruelty at the hands of many. Whether you are abandoned or loved, you will never see a second decade.'"

She opened her eyes again. They looked sad, but that was all. She held no bitterness toward the hand life had dealt her, only quiet acceptance. "Mama left me in the woods. She thought I would die, eaten by wolves or from the illness. But, somehow, I survived. I never got sick again, just like the witch promised."

Fawkes crooned softly as Beda gathered herself. "It took me a while to accept that I would die young," she said, her voice still shaky but firmer. "But once I did – once I accepted that I was born to die – the world also became beautiful. Beauty can't exist without cruelty, and neither can life exist without death. It's just the way the world works, Fawkes."

The bird gazed at his human. He knew what she said was the truth. For even when he knew she was good and kind, he had never truly seen just how beautiful a soul she had, that she could remain happy and innocent, despite all the pain she had gone through.

Seeing that, he let the thought of her death be pushed from his mind. Instead, he sang.

Long, tremulous and aching – the melody he wove for her was all apology, love, awe and grief. When he finished his song, she had tears in her eyes as she dropped a kiss on his head.

They sat in silence for a while, Beda stroking his feathers gently. Then, she leaned in. He blinked sleepily up at her. She smiled, and said in a whisper, "The next time you chase away all the animals, I'll turn you into a _real_ stuffed bird."

His feathers seemed to pale at her words.

* * *

When he burst into flames, Beda screamed. He wasn't sure if it was surprise or because his fire had burned her skin. Probably both.

He hadn't been looking well lately, and Beda had been worried. She had been force-feeding him herbs and even some potions from the witch market, but nothing had worked. He had remained looking old and sickly, his once rich and bright feathers faded to dull red.

He could hear her sobbing and repeating his name over and over. He felt vaguely apologetic for upsetting her, but he hadn't expected to explode in a ball of fire, either. It was only when he actually did that he realised he had had his first Burning Day.

He was a fully mature phoenix now, he thought proudly.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. He looked up, blinking blearily. He found Beda's dark green eyes staring back at him. "Oh, my God, you're not dead. You're – you're a _baby_."

Fawkes croaked out a sound.

Relief, awe and confusion warred on her face. "Thank God, you're not dead, but… _how_?"

He glanced pointedly at her burnt hands. She reached them out obligingly, though confused, and he shed his first drops of phoenix tears. A few moments of nothing, then the burns began to fade. Soon enough, her skin was clear and pale.

Beda's jaw fell open. She stared at her healed hands disbelievingly, then at Fawkes.

"Phoenix," she breathed. "I heard – market was selling _phoenix tears_ – healing properties – _oh, my God._ "

He shivered as a particularly cool draft of wind came through the open window. He had forgotten how awful it was to be a nestling again. Beda snapped out of her dazed stupor and shut them quickly. She walked back to the table where he huddled in his pile of ashes, and stared.

"Beautiful," she whispered.

* * *

His third Burning Day was just after she turned sixteen.

He felt terrible – worse than usual. She had left him at home while she went hunting, because he was still too weak to be carried around. At the very least, he had made her carry a vial filled with his tears with her.

She was sixteen. Almost twenty.

He had stopped chasing away the game when she turned fifteen, even for fun. If Beda knew the true reason he stopped was because he didn't want her to starve to death, she said nothing.

It was tainted now. Every moment with her, more fear and hope crept into his heart and wedged themselves between him and Beda. Fear because one day she might leave, and never return. Hope because he thought maybe – just maybe – the witch was wrong.

When Beda returned at sunset, he chirped happily. She smiled at him, and that night, she let him sleep in her bed, curled up in the warmth of her palms.

* * *

She was out hunting again, on the northern side of the forest where they had rarely been. But, recently, game in the southern side was getting scarce. Fawkes was soaring over the snow-topped trees, searching for any sign of life.

She had glared at him when he had first helped her hunt. "You know, I don't really need you. I can hunt perfectly fine without your help."

He had feigned deafness and kept at it until she had given up her protests.

The sooner she finished hunting, after all, the sooner they could return to the safety of their hut. But he never told her that.

He never told her many things.

* * *

He had just had a Burning Day when it happened.

He was weak, but he hopped toward the window, painstakingly slow. Icy wind blasted in, but that didn't matter. He didn't hear her screams, but he heard her voice. Whispered, mumbled words of apologies and sorrow. They streamed into his mind, as though carried by the wind.

He felt the horror take root in him, and tried desperately to flash to her side. But he was a newborn, and even if he wasn't, he wasn't bonded to her.

He didn't know where she was.

All he knew was that she was afraid, and that the wind smelt of blood.

* * *

Her hair still burned as bright as fire.

 _Take me home._

The snow on which her body lay was red.

 _Don't be sad._

Her tunic beneath her cloak was red.

 _I'm scared._

Her skin was red, red, red.

 _Stay with me._

Yet, his world seemed as dull as her empty eyes.

 _I love you._

* * *

In a clearing, layered with snow, surrounded with snow-topped trees and vast mountains, a phoenix flashed into existence. It was sunset here, as it always was, untouched by time, and protected by enchantments the phoenix had woven around it long ago.

The phoenix glanced around. At the edge of the pristine white, before the ground became shadowed by trees, there was a hut. A constant fire burned in there, though no human had stepped foot in there for centuries. The phoenix stared at the old house, head tilted to the side. Then, he blinked and turned away.

Cutting through the middle of the clearing was a river. At its bank, lay a girl with pale skin and red hair. Her head rested on a large boulder covered in soft, green moss. Her body was clothed in the warm skins of various animals. Across her chest, lay her bow and quiver, with her fingers wrapped gently around them.

The girl could have been asleep, for she looked that peaceful. Her pale lips were even upturned into a faint smile.

The phoenix landed by her side, and sang her a soft greeting.

He buried his head into her fire-coloured hair, and closed his eyes.

He was home.


	6. Romilda

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: Beater 2 for QLFC Season 4. Round 5 - Romantic Prompt.**

 **Word Count: 2053**

 **Prompts:**

 **(character) Romilda Vane**

 **Additional Prompts:**

 **(word) piano;**

 **(quote) 'They say marriages are made in heaven, but so was thunder and lightning'. – Clint Eastwood.**

* * *

She held her wand gingerly, keeping her hand steady. Slowly, she drew it along the top of her eyes, leaving a trail of black ink on her skin. Her eyes watered as she tried not to blink. She did the same at the bottom, though only halfway. _In line with the pupil_ , she chanted in her mind. _In line with the pupil._

A small, satisfied smile settled on her lips as she watched the eyeliner flick to a stop right where she wanted it to.

Perfect.

A careful flick of her wand, and she felt a gentle tugging on her lashes as the thick mascara curved them upwards.

Even better.

She silently thanked whoever invented the Replication Charm and cast it. The exact makeup she had spent the past half hour painstakingly applying onto one eye appeared on the other.

She tilted her head to one side, examining the effect. She flashed her reflection a pretty smile, surprised that though she had done nothing to her skin, somehow applying makeup to her eyes made it seem more smooth. She tried looking at her face from different angles, pleased by the way the light bounced off her cheeks and highlighted her cheekbones.

She looked… pretty. Above average.

That day, someone new was born. The twelve-year-old witch who hated that her eyes were set too far apart and her cheeks too plump rejoiced. She embraced the new side of her, the part that was pretty and confident.

That day, Romilda Vane felt whole.

* * *

Romilda's eyes darted to _him._ She glimpsed his green eyes, staring steadily ahead, and felt her heartbeat pick up. He was so _cute._

"Look," she whispered to her friends, nudging them. They perked up as well, gazing greedily at the dark-haired boy who was immersed in a conversation with his friend. The redheaded one – Ronald Weasley, Romilda remembered – the one he was almost always with. Him. Harry Potter.

She sighed dreamily as he passed by her.

The hero of the Wizarding World.

Brave, strong and kind, everything she imagined him to be. Well, she amended as she recalled the coldness he had treated her with when she had spoken to him on the Hogwarts Express, maybe not _kind._ But that was another part of his charm – that he was so protective of his friends. Even if they were weird.

 _How wonderful_ , she thought. How wonderful it must be to be protected by _Harry Potter_.

Romilda imagined his fierce gaze turned on someone who had insulted her. Ginny Weasley, perhaps; the girl had always looked at her as though she was dirt. Harry – for she would be close enough to him to call him Harry – would defend her.

She sighed dreamily, imagining her green-eyed protector giving Ginny bloody Weasley the tongue-lashing she deserved.

* * *

"Come on," she said to her friends. "It'll be _easy._ "

All of them had varying looks of uncertainty. Romilda hated that – it made her feel uncertain, too.

But she pasted on a bright smile and forced that hesitation down. It was easy. It was fine. She wasn't doing anything _wrong._ "Please," she wheedled. "You guys won't even have to do much – just… help me figure out a plan."

"I don't know," one of her friends said, chewing on her lip. "Are you sure, Ro? It's… a little desperate, don't you think?"

Romilda flinched. She pressed her lips into a thin line. "It's not _desperate_ ," she hissed, using her anger to hide the hurt. "For Merlin's sake, Nell, I'm not going to keep him under it. Do you really think I'd sink _that_ low?"

Nell backtracked quickly. "No, of course not, Ro. I didn't mean it that way, I just –"

"Not many ways you can mean it," snapped Romilda, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I'm not _desperate_."

"No, no," said Nell hastily. "I know that. You're Romilda Vane, of course you're not."

Romilda eyed her for a moment longer, and her blonde friend seemed to shrink under her gaze. Finally, she tore her eyes away, taking a deep breath. She looked around at her other friends. "So?" she asked. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Farrah mumbled a few curses under her breath. "Fine," she said, her dark eyes meeting Romilda's. "I'll help you – but, for the record, I think it's a shite idea."

"Well," said Romilda, a satisfied smile on her lips. "That's fine; I'm the one he's going to fall for anyway."

Her two other friends – and Nell – followed after Farrah, though Nell still looked doubtful.

"Great," she grinned at all of them. "Now, love potion or spell?"

They huddled close in the toilets, giggling as they made their plans.

They never noticed the bushy-haired sixth year girl that slipped out of the toilets quietly.

* * *

"I found something," chirped Farrah. She walked over to their table and dumped a thick tome onto it. "It's a spell that you put onto a piano. Anyone listening will be drawn to the person playing."

"I can't play the piano," said Romilda, looking up her friend.

Farrah shrugged. "It doesn't have to be _good_ playing. You could sound like twenty of those bloody Golden Eggs Potter won two years ago, and he would still be drawn in."

"What does it mean by 'drawn in', though?" asked Nell, peering at the words.

Romilda eyed the enchantment with excitement; they'd been looking for _days._ This was the most they had been able to find, short of Amortentia, the instructions to which were in the Restricted Section. "Says here the listener will be 'attracted' to the caster."

"It'll get you his attention, that's for sure."

Romilda nodded, a smile blooming on her face. "That's all I need."

* * *

"Did it work?" asked Nell.

Romilda shot the girl a dark glare.

"Clearly not," said Farrah, looking amused.

"I don't know _how_ he did it!" Romilda half-shrieked. "Do you know how hard it was to even get him in the common room alone without his two idiot friends? Not to mention Ginny _fucking_ Weasley, who looks like she wants to fucking gyrate all over him, _all the time_!"

Farrah wrinkled her nose. "Don't say that. Gods, I've seen pictures of Potter's mum – Weasley looks like her with brown eyes. Also, of course I know how hard it was. I was the one that distracted those idiot friends."

"And me," added Nell softly.

Romilda cast her a look of irritation.

"And you," amended Farrah. She turned her attention back to Romilda, who was still red-faced and furious. "So, what went wrong?"

" _Nothing_ ," hissed Romilda. "The charm was perfect. We were alone. I played the piano, and it didn't even sound that bad. He even looked at me for a while. He stared at me for a few seconds, then…" Her voice choked at this. It was humiliating, really. She used a spell, and she still couldn't get his attention. "He turned back to his fucking essay. Am I _that_ insignificant?" Her voice climbed steadily into a shrill sound.

Her friends looked confused, and Nell even patted her comfortingly. Inwardly, Romilda seethed. She didn't need _pity._ "Well, something must have gone wrong," said Farrah. "How else could he have thrown it – oh…"

"What?" Nell asked, looking between the two of them.

"Yeah," growled the dark-haired girl. " _What_? Because I would sure as hell like to know."

"He threw it off," said Farrah simply. "Remember? Second Year? The rumours about him being able to throw off the Imperius?"

"They were rumours," protested Nell.

But Romilda was nodding along slowly. "Apparently not."

"Well," said Farrah, after minutes of silence. "That's that, then? Are we done?" The last part was said semi-hopefully.

Romilda's eyes gleamed. Nell gulped when she saw that – terrible ideas were borne from that gleam. Like the idea to enchant Potter. She exchanged a look with Farrah, who looked resigned.

* * *

Romilda filled out the WWW order form carefully. She was using a false name so it didn't get traced back to her, though she doubted it would fool the Weasley twins. On the bright side, they probably valued chaos too much to care.

Nell sank into the seat next to her. Their whole dorm was empty save for them. Romilda glanced at her friend, but otherwise did not say anything.

Finally, the girl spoke. "Are you sure about this, Ro?"

"Sure about what?" asked Romilda icily.

Nell jerked slightly, before squaring her shoulders. "This. Harry Potter," she said. Her voice wavered, but she ploughed on. "I'm worried about you, Ro. I'm worried you'll get caught. You know that using love potions on people is punishable with a month in Azkaban, don't you?"

Romilda rolled her eyes, annoyance leaking from her every pore. "Merlin, Nell, I _told_ you that you don't have to worry about getting caught. Even if _I_ get caught, no one will know you were helping me unless one of us tattles – and I certainly don't plan to."

Her friend blew out a frustrated sound, leaning back in her seat. "Jesus fucking Christ," she muttered. Romilda raised an eyebrow – Nell was usually so meek and proper. She had never actually heard her friend swore before. "Is this what you think this is about?" demanded Nell.

Romilda stopped writing and finally looked at her. "What else could it be about?"

"I'm worried about _you_ , Romilda!" said Nell angrily, tossing her blonde hair back. "I'm not worried about getting caught; I know you won't tell on us. But I'm worried about you. Not just about you breaking the law, but what you're doing. You could just go up to him and actually, you know, _talk to him_. Why the fuck do you even feel the need to do – to do _this_?" She snatched the order form up and waved it in Romilda's face.

The girl in question leaned back, more than a little shocked by Nell's outburst.

"It's just," said Nell, her face suddenly crumpling. "I don't like this. You're my friend, even if you treat me like utter _shite_ half the time" – Romilda felt a flare of indignation at the accusation – "you're my friend. It'll ruin you. I know it will." She ran out of steam at that and stared at Romilda with defiance in her gaze.

Romilda stood, towering over the other girl. Her irritation had _snapped_ with that final sentence. _I know it will._ "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" she snarled. "It won't ruin me. Who the fuck are you to say that you _know_ it will?"

"Your friend," replied Nell, her voice steady and low. "You can do this if you like, but I won't stand by and watch you tear yourself apart in the end. I can't."

She fixed Nell with her coldest look. "Then go."

In the silence that followed, Romilda couldn't help but notice the shattered look in Nell's eyes and the way her friend's – former friend, Romilda corrected herself – bottom lip trembled. She almost took it back, almost broke and apologised and begged her friend to stay.

But Nell left before she could.

Romilda felt the rejection like a hundred knives in her heart.

The worst thing was that a small part of her knew she deserved it.

* * *

Romilda flicked her mascara on, thicker this time.

 _I'll show her._

She flashed her reflection a smile.

 _I don't need her to do this._

She spritzed perfume all over herself.

 _Marriage and love are made in Heaven – hah!_

She made sure to put on a darker shade of blush.

 _Utter bullshit. You know what else is made in Heaven? Thunder and lightning._

Her lips were painted a glossy, pale pink.

 _I don't need a love made in Heaven._

She checked her foundation, making sure it was perfect.

 _I just need one started with magic._

She blinked at her reflection again. From the corner of her eye, she could see the box of Chocolate Cauldrons lying innocently on her bed.

She was beautiful.

Flawless.

That's what she needed to be.

 _Everything would go well_ , she promised herself. _Everything will be perfect. I'll get his attention – that's all I need._

That was all she needed, she knew. All she needed to get him to look at her closely enough and see _her._

Romilda spun on her heel and grabbed the box of chocolates.

Everything would be perfect.


	7. Mist and Lake

**[A/N]: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **Written for QLFC Season 4, Ballycastle Bats - Beater 2.**

 **Pairing: Ted Tonks and Andromeda Black**

 **Prompts:**

 **(quote) 'Just have a little faith.' – Michael Scofield,** ** _Prison Break._**

 **(setting) Hogwarts Express**

 **(creature) Boggart**

 **(poem) 'Ship' by Carol Ann Duffy**

 **(word) mist**

 **Word Count: Around 1900.**

* * *

Andromeda walks into the compartment and glances around. Her dark eyes narrow before her gaze settles on the sandy-haired boy sitting by the window. "This is new," she comments.

He grins at her, the cheeky, carefree smile that she loves. "I thought you might want a bit more excitement," he says.

"Hmm," is all she said in return. She sinks into the seat opposite him, carefully positioning her legs so that they don't touch his. "Where are we?" she asks finally.

The boy spreads his arms open. "Why, my love, we're on the Hogwarts Express, of course!"

She throws him a dirty look. "You know what I meant."

"Fine," he replies, smirking lightly. It is coincidence, she is sure, but at that exact moment the light hits his face in a way that makes her breath hitch. It makes his skin glow and his eyes look lighter. If he notices, he gives no indication. "Somewhere in Scotland, I expect. About an hour from Hogwarts."

Andromeda looks out the window at the fields zooming past them. A vague memory sparks in her mind, one of frantic, stolen kisses before she had to return to her sisters. A whispered admission of 'I love you' that made her heart stop and her world glow.

"Of course," she murmurs.

He smiles, though this time, there is a hint of sadness. "I'm surprised, to be honest – that you remembered."

For the first time, Andromeda's eyes meet his amber ones with a hair-raising intensity. "I don't think I could ever forget," she tells him, sincerely, painfully. His gaze warms, and his hand jerks, as if to reach out and touch her. Then, it stills.

She stares at that hand for a long moment.

"I'm sorry," he offers, finally.

Her heart clenches painfully. It is a useless apology. She knows it, and so does he. "I'm sorry, too," she replies anyway.

She doesn't know how she manages to sound calm. Her voice is steady and her tone blank, as well as her face, even if inside her emotions roil and lash out viciously.

He doesn't reply, and she knows her façade doesn't convince him at all.

She sighs, stands, and leaves the compartment.

* * *

The mist shifts as Andromeda walks towards the lake. She stares at the hidden horizon, waits for the first rays of sunlight to spill across the sky and through the thick fog.

It remains dark, the endless expanse above her almost black. There are no stars, and the moonlight is weak and dull.

Something in her cracks when she realises the sun will never rise here.

She kneels.

She presses a tentative finger onto the surface of the water.

All she finds is a solid barrier, as though the mist has solidified over the lake.

Andromeda's other hand curls into blades of dewy grass, nails digging into wet earth. The mist shifts and she sees herself in the reflection of the lake surface. She drags her clean hand over her smooth skin.

"How strange," she whispers to herself.

She looks up at the forever-midnight sky.

A strange world, indeed.

* * *

He glances at her as she walks in, her robes dishevelled and her eyes weary. "You okay?"

"I was at the lake," she says, after a pause.

"Ah."

Andromeda is glad he doesn't push for more after that. Taking advantage of the silence, she takes in her surroundings. It's a classroom, she realises. The DADA room at Hogwarts. There is a familiar trunk sitting in the corner. She tilts her head curiously. "This is how my sisters found out about you."

"Yes," he says, sounding entirely too cheerful.

Her lips quirk upwards. "You didn't sound quite so happy then."

He sounds defensive now. "Your sisters are scary. Thank Merlin Bella had already graduated," he adds under his breath.

"She would have castrated you," agrees Andromeda. She smirks when he shifts so that his legs are crossed protectively.

Then, he perks up. "You didn't let her, though," he remembers.

Her smile fades slightly. It is true. She recalls how _furious_ Bella was, and shivers _._ An angry Bella rarely led to good things. The only that saved both his and her life was a well-placed Confundus that 'helped' convince Bella their relationship was only a fling.

"And that's why I love you," he adds lightly, when he sees her face.

She is silent for a while. Finally, she says, "Is the Boggart in there?" She jerks her head at the trunk in the dusty corner. It isn't her best of evasions, but he has enough tact to play along.

"Well, I suppose so," he says. Right on cue, the trunk rattles. He approaches it, and sinks down to a crouch. He glances back at Andromeda, while running an idle hand over the smooth surface. "Would you like to open it?"

Andromeda moves closer warily. "I don't know," she pauses. "It'll be different now, won't it? After all, my fears…" She trails off. Both of them heard the unsaid words – _my fears have already come to pass._

The trunk shakes again, more violently this time. A part of her yearns to know her fears now. The other shrinks away from the prospect, afraid.

"Here," he gestures her closer. His voice is quiet, calm, soothing. It makes her lips turn upwards, and she can almost _pretend_ that this is real. Then, her gaze lands on his hand, hanging stiffly by his side, as though it is all he can do to not reach out for her.

She pulls her wand out and walks briskly to a stop before the trunk. She glances at him, his youthful face. He smiles reassuringly at her.

"I'm here," he promises.

 _Liar._

She closes her eyes, draws in a deep breath, and opens them again. She nods.

The trunk swings open.

* * *

Andromeda lies in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The sun streams into her room, but she feels cold. Already, she can hear Teddy's cries as he wakes.

She gets up with a sigh, and heads to soothe her grandson. Very carefully, she does not look at the empty bed.

When she gets there, he seems to sob louder. His whole face is puffy red and his nose drips with tears and snot. His hair is a sickly kind of yellow now. "Hungry?" she murmurs to him. "It's alright. Grandma will get you some food now, hmm?"

Teddy wails louder.

She hums as she walks down the stairs. It's his favourite song, and never fails to soothe him. It works again, this time. She hums until his sobs become sniffles, and he watches her bustle around the kitchen with wet eyes and pouty lips.

"Here you go, dear," says Andromeda, sitting down before her grandson. She spoons the food towards his mouth. He chomps down greedily.

Slowly, his hair turns into a nicer, sandy brown. Andromeda feels her smile become fixed, but the small child doesn't notice. She tugs a lock of his hair gently. "You look just like your grandfather with your hair that way, did you know that?" she tells him. His blue eyes flash reddish gold, as though he understood her.

Andromeda's heart feels like a knife is twisting in it.

"Next one," she says, as steadily as she can.

Teddy slurps up his meal, oblivious.

* * *

Andromeda's smile is bitter. "I should have known."

He looks up at her with a sad look, donned in his Hogwarts robes and his young, healthy face. Only his eyes betray his age.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You've said that before," she says.

"I know," he whispers. "Because I am. So _horribly_ sorry."

He sinks down next to the shut trunk. After a moment, she sits down next to him. Her shoulders almost brush against his, but he moves away. She tries not to feel disappointed, even though she knows it is for the best. Even though she knows it saves them both the pain.

"It isn't your fault."

"I should have been more careful," he insists.

Andromeda looks down at her knees. "No," she says. "Bella herself wanted you. You never had a chance." His hand jerks, but she ploughs on. "I doomed you – doomed you from the moment I kissed you and promised you we'd stay together."

"Andy," he breathes. She buries her head in her hands. There are no tears, only self-hatred and anger. "I loved you. Still do, actually – but I loved you, and the Black family wrath never mattered to me. Only you, Andy, only you."

"Only me," she repeats, with a bitter laugh. "Only you, too, Ted. Only you."

* * *

The mist shifts in the distance. Andromeda reaches out to test the still waters of the lake again. Her fingers meet the barrier, but closer this time, bare inches from the surface.

She raises her head, her wild curls tumbling down her back, black streaked grey. If she closes her eyes, she can see his face, both young and full of life, and old and bloodless. The air seems to sway around her, as the first stirrings of a breeze brush against her face. With it, she hears whispers carried from across the lake, beyond the horizon where she cannot yet reach.

She can barely make out the words – they jumble together, disjointed phrases that vaguely form a sentence.

They tell her to face her fears. They tell her to live. They tell her they love her.

They tell her to wake.

"Have faith in yourself," they whisper, when she tells them she doesn't think she can do it.

She thinks of her grandson, his red-faced screams, his light giggles. "For Teddy," is the only promise she can manage. She stands, pulls her fingers away from the lake.

She spies in the distance a familiar figure. He stands in the centre of the lake, floating above its waters. His face is tipped upwards, his pale face alight with happiness. His hair, in bronze waves, frames his face, untouched by age. Andromeda cannot see his eyes from this distance, but she knows their amber shade and their oval shapes as well as her own eyes.

He looks at her, then, and he smiles.

Her heart breaks a little, and she dearly wishes to join him, to revel with him in the glow of happiness that he bathes in.

She smiles back, even as her eyes sting with unshed tears.

She closes them.

* * *

Andromeda lies in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The sun streams into her room, but she feels cold. Already, she can hear Teddy's cries as he wakes.

She turns her head, stares at the cold, empty side of the bed where her husband used to lie. One hand reaches out and twists into the sheets. She hears his voice echoing in her head, calm and loving and reassuring. _Have faith. Live._

The dream is already slipping away, like water through her fingers. She can't hold onto it, even as she desperately tries to remember the cadence of his voice, the sound of his laughter.

 _Have faith,_ his voice says again, vague and morphing in her mind as she tries to remember exactly how he said it. _Live._

She grips on to those three words with all the determination she can muster. Pulls it in close and buries it in the centre of her heart.

She gets up, wipes her tears away with the back of her hand.

Andromeda goes to her grandson, and thus, her day begins.


	8. Logic

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: For Round 8 of QLFC. Ballycastle Bats, Beater 2.**

 **Prompt: What would life be like two years after Voldemort rises to power?**

 **Word Count: 1222 words.**

* * *

' _A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever._ ' – Hermione Granger, _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone._

* * *

She eyes the wall speculatively.

Three up and two across – it is a familiar action that she has seen many of _them_ do. They tap their strange sticks on the worn bricks, and the wall that surrounds her entire existence opens up and lets them through. Two taps of their wands, and by Merlin, they have escaped the boring life of this world.

She heard the word 'Merlin' for the first time being used by her mother. Her father shushed him quickly, with fearful looks all around. She repeated it after, just to taste the word on her tongue. Her father gave her a hard slap around her head, and her mother looked guilty.

"Don't say that again," he said harshly. "Or they'll know."

 _Know what_? She wanted to ask. But whatever it is, it isn't good, judging from her father's tone. And what she knows, all too well, is what _they'll_ do to her, her father and her mother if they ever found out whatever it is her father doesn't want them to know.

* * *

She hears a story about the boy three tents away, fourteen-years-old, who boasted that he would one day bring down the magicals and restore the power of the mundanes. He was quickly silenced, beaten and tortured, before being taken away.

For every day for the next month, she searches for him in the overcrowded enclosure they are kept in.

She doesn't find him.

* * *

Today, there are flashes of red light, horrifying screams of agony, as well as cruel laughter. Worse still, is the bright green spell that washes over the kneeling woman and seems to steal life from her very breath.

She knows that spell. Remembers it and can feel its icy magic drag across her skin like something dead.

Her fingers dig into her palm as she recalls the lifeless eyes of her younger brother, his small body stretched out as though he was relaxing beneath the sun.

Shuddering, she forces herself away from the scene before her, where a freshly dead woman is being dragged away and tossed like a broken doll, to focus again on the wall before her. Her gaze follows along the brick expanse, takes in the way it curves around the edges of the camp and encloses them all.

Here, before her, is the limit of her existence, the walls of her prison.

* * *

It's the second anniversary of the victory of the magicals. A simmering image appears before them in the camp centre, where they are forced to stand and watch – everyone from the youngest child to the oldest man or woman.

A hissing voice begins to speak, one that makes her clutch her mother and her father closer. It sends bad shivers down her spine and she resists the urge to cry when he smiles – a cold, empty gesture that makes her feel cold and empty inside as well.

"Today, we celebrate the liberation of magic… the _Muggles_ ," he spits. "In their rightful place… And here, my loyal subjectssss… here, I give you our celebration… Bella!"

A woman with a manic smile stumbles into sight, her wand held aloft.

Her eyes widen as she realises this _Bella_ is levitating a bound couple, one of whom is clutching a small bundle to her chest.

They are both blindfolded, but both are conscious and straining against their chains. Their mouths open and close, forming silent words.

She feels, rather than hears, her mother's broken gasp.

" _No_ ," her mother moans, too soft for anyone but her to hear.

She scrutinizes the couple. Both have jet black hair, the man's cropped short, and the woman's wild and unrestrained in its bushiness. The blanket the woman clutches to her chest slips a little, and she realises it is a _baby_ the woman is clutching.

The baby, unlike its parents, has bright red hair, almost a blazing fire.

Bella cackles. " _Crucio_!" Her voice is filled to the brim with glee.

The woman screams. Bella leans in close as the woman thrashes, whispers into her ear. The woman screams louder. As she flails, her sleeve is pushed upwards, revealing waxy scars.

The eight-year-old frowns, tries to read them.

 _Mudblood_ , it says.

"Here are your heroes!" laughs the Dark Lord, his red eyes gleaming. "Here are the cowards that abandoned you to hide amongst filthy Muggles!"

A new voice is heard, cracked with desperation, edged with despair. " _Harry_! Let him _go_ , you mad _bitch_!" the man roars.

Bella snarls, whipping her wand viciously.

The woman stops screaming, instead twitches on the ground, whimpering. Her baby – Harry – wails loudly.

The man lunges at Bella, but he is wandless.

It doesn't last long.

* * *

She has to look away when they start in on the baby.

Its torture is cruelest and the most prolonged. She doesn't know why. Her mother seems to know, as she mouths, "Harry."

* * *

Her pale eyes flick upwards, almost involuntarily, as though she isn't capable of stopping them from doing so, even if she wanted to.

While the daunting wall stretches high above them, and is a horrifying sight for someone as claustrophobic as she is – though she suspects everyone is claustrophobic in this wretched place – the true horror lies above those walls. For perched atop them, bound to the stake, are people.

Some alive. Most dead.

Examples made of mundanes who tried to fight back.

Her eyes fall on one of the skeletons hanging there. Her father pointed it out only a year ago, when she was seven and he thought her old enough to handle such truths. Although, in retrospect, he was also drunk. That was his sister, he said. Her aunt.

She walks up closer than she ever has before, until her nose almost touches the cool wall.

It doesn't allow mundanes through, she knows. Built to stop mundanes from entering, to confine them. She knows it doesn't let her mother in either, even though her mother is one of them, a magical.

Big magic doesn't work on the wall either. The ones that destroy and ruin and burn, they fizzle out when they meet the wall. She knows it because she has seen those spells when some of the magicals in black start fighting when they are drunk.

But tapping their wand on a specific brick, the magicals can get through. Cleaning spells work on the bricks, when some of the magicals get too much blood on the walls and have to clean up.

Power, she realises, is the key.

* * *

It is such a crude structure, this wall. As crude as the civilization that put it here. She wonders how this came to be. They were so many, the mundanes, while the magicals were dying out. The mundanes, once, outnumbered magicals 1000:1. But, somehow, the mundanes are here now, the ones trapped in a prison.

Nature chose mundanes over magicals. Humans made it so that magicals won instead.

What did mundanes have that magicals didn't? That made it so nature itself was against them?

She presses her fingertips to the bricks, three up, two across.

Taps it twice softly.

The wall hums.

What little magic she has in her veins sings.


	9. Neville

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: There's some stuff in here I took straight from _Bambi._ Just changed the quotes around a little to better suit the story. So yeah, I don't own those bits as well, but I'm not entirely sure if I should be putting those sections in bold? Either way, they're there. **

**Now, my prompts are:**

 **(story) Bambi**

 **(word) effervescent**

 **(quote) 'If you smile when no one else is around, you really mean it.' – Andy Rooney.**

 **The word count is: 2646.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The first thing you know is your mother speaking. You don't know what she is saying, but you know the comfort you feel as she rocks you in her arms.

Slowly, you open your eyes.

There are blurred faces around you, staring down at you.

Your eyes fix blearily on your mother.

You mumble sleepily, and close your eyes again.

You're lost to a world of dreams when an old woman speaks in an imperious voice, "Congratulations, Alice. It isn't every day a Longbottom heir is born."

* * *

She smiles down at you, cuddles you close and lets you grip onto her finger. Her hair is brown, a dark shade that falls around you in a curtain and shields you from the world. You giggle when she laughs, you laugh when she tickles you.

He comes over, and he gives you a grin. He plants a kiss on your forehead, he strokes your cheek.

"I love you," he says to you, and she echoes it, too.

You smile back, eyes alight with happiness, heart full of an emotion you cannot yet express to them.

* * *

He swings you up onto his hip, holds you close. He isn't smiling, but that's okay, because you can still feel his warmth by your side, his warmth that promises safety and love. He speaks, not to you, not to her, but to a stranger. The stranger gives you a small smile, and you wave back at him.

She appears next to him, and you're huddled between them. She strokes the strands of your hair, and your eyes droop sleepily. You let the sounds of their hushed voices wash over you, lull you to sleep.

You're asleep when they hug you close and bury their faces in each other's neck, whispering 'I love you's and promises of forever. You're asleep when the stranger smooths your hair gently before leaving.

You dream, and even in your dreams, you know you are loved.

* * *

You're playing with a boy your age, a boy with bright red hair and blue eyes. His mother fusses, as the two of you eye each other.

"Ron," squeals the other boy, pointing at himself.

"Ro," you try.

"Ron," he says again, slower.

"Ron."

He giggles and claps. You cheer, "Ron! Ron! Ron!"

Two adults come in, staring at you in disbelief. You look up and give them a brilliant smile. "Ma!" you say.

Your Ma walks over to you and kneels down, her eyes welling up. "Yes, baby," she whispers. "I'm your Ma."

"Ma! Ma! Ma!" you laugh. You look at the other adult. "Da?"

Your Da lets out a choked laugh and envelops you and your Ma.

* * *

On your first birthday, your parents and your grandmother place a cake in front of you. They sing to you, all three of them, as you bounce excitedly in your father's embrace. Your grandmother looks at the both of you with a tender look in her eyes, one that you don't notice.

"Blow it out," she says, and you do. You huff and you puff and you make a wish.

When you're older, you don't remember what you wished for – you don't even remember this birthday. But in this moment, surrounded by your family, you know that as you blow out your candle, your mind holds on to this scene like it's your lifeline.

The single candle is put out, just as the wax touches the pristine white cream that covers the cake.

* * *

The days pass. You don't see many people at all. The only people you see are your parents, your grandmother, and once, a man with messy, black hair, a woman with hair as bright as fire, and a boy your age that you bonded with over spilt ice cream and food fights.

You stand at the door when they leave, watching them walk out into the garden you have never been to before. Your Ma catches the wistful look in your eye. Her hand supporting you tightens, and the soft look that is usually in her gaze is replaced by something harder, something more desperate.

"You must never rush out into the garden," she says, her voice firm. "There might be danger!" Then, more gently: "Out there, we are unprotected. The garden is wide and open, and the wards aren't as powerful. So we have to be careful."

You nod slowly.

* * *

A stranger comes over one day. He looks kind and gentle, with a funny long beard and brightly-coloured robes. He gives you a smile, and you wave shyly back.

"This is Professor Dumbledore, love," says your Da.

Your mouth mangles the name, and your Da chuckles lightly.

"It's okay, love," your Ma soothes. "Professor Dumbledore is a very brave and very wise man. He's the Leader of the Light."

"Old," is your reply.

Your Ma sputters and blushes, but the very old and very brave and very wise man only gives you an amused look.

His face changes almost immediately, however, when he looks your parents in the eye. You don't know what shifted, but you can tell something rests heavier in the air.

Your Da puts you in your room, drops a kiss on your forehead. He smiles at you, but you can tell his smile is different from his usual smile. You return the smile hesitantly, but your Da has left your room already.

You've never been left alone for this long before. When your parents come back for you, you reach out your arms for reassurance. They give it to you readily, but you still don't feel quite right.

In your worry, you don't notice your parents' red eyes, nor the torturous mix of emotions in them.

You don't realise it, but they're so terribly relieved – and guilty because of it.

You don't realise they're relieved for _you_ , for the fate you weren't chosen for.

The fate of being the Boy-Who-Lived.

* * *

You're outside for the first time since you can remember.

You rejoice in the snow, the icy water that soaks through your gloves as you try to imitate your Da rolling a snowball.

He flings his snowball – and your badly made one – at your Ma, who shrieks and laughs. She flings snow back at your Da, and you sputter as some of it splashes onto your face. The cold stings against your skin, but it's okay, because your Ma and Da are happy, and so are you.

You forget the strangeness from yesterday, and laugh with them, cheeks flushed and eyes shining with delight.

* * *

She puts you in the closet, strokes your cheek.

You gurgle, but she presses her finger against your lips.

"We're going to play a game, love, okay?" she says quietly. She smiles at you, but it makes you flinch. "You have to be the quietest. Don't make a sound. Be silent."

You stare at her with wide eyes, but your mouth remains shut and the only sound is your shallow breathing.

"Good," she whispers. She presses her forehead against yours. "Ma and Da are going to play the game somewhere else, okay? It's called" – she breaks off, choking – "Who Can Scream The Loudest? And you have to be silent, okay, love? Completely silent. No matter what you hear, no matter _who_ you hear, even if it suddenly goes quiet, you won't make a sound. Not until the game is over, love. If you make a sound, you lose. And you'll stay in this closet, until Grandma comes and gets you, okay?"

Your hands are shaking, but you don't know why. Maybe it's the strange way your Ma is talking. Maybe it's because you don't know where your Da is. But you don't like it, and it's making you afraid.

"Don't be scared, baby." She grips your hands tightly. "Ma and Da love you. We love you so much. Remember the rules. We love you."

She presses a lingering, tear-stained kiss on the crown of your head.

"We love you," she murmurs again. "Always remember that."

You want to cry out. When she gets up, you want to beg for her to come back. But you don't know the words, and you promised not to make a sound.

So you keep silent.

She shuts the closet door, and you're surrounded in cold darkness.

* * *

Who Can Scream The Loudest?

It's a terrible game, you realise.

You listen closely. You can hear strangers shouting, your Ma and Da shouting; you can see bright flashes of light seep through the cracks of the closet door.

A sharp cry. You recognise your Ma's voice.

A lower, hoarser yell. Your Da's voice.

You listen closely.

Ma is winning the game.

Now Da is winning.

Now you aren't sure who is winning, all you know is that this game doesn't sound very fun.

But Ma told you to stay in the closet. She told you to be silent.

You listen to what your Ma said. She's always right.

You listen to what your Ma said. It will be okay.

* * *

Ma is crying. You wonder if this is part of the game.

You can't hear your Da anymore. You hope he says something – anything – because the silence makes you nervous. You don't realise you're crying, too, until your Ma resumes playing the game again.

You don't make a sound.

Someone laughs.

That's good, laughing is good.

It means they're having fun.

Right?

* * *

 _Ickle Alice Longbottom._

 _She was a tough little Auror._

 _She lasted longer than her ickle husband._

 _But look now, nobody's home!_

* * *

A high-pitched giggle.

There's no one making a sound, except for the giggling stranger.

She sounds happy. Nobody's home, she says.

You wonder where your Ma and Da is, if they aren't with her.

She laughs again, the stranger alone in your house.

It's okay, you tell yourself. She's laughing. Laughing is good.

* * *

"He's here! Oh, thank _Merlin_ , he's here, Augusta, he's here!"

You look up, blinking blearily. It's the first sign of light you've seen in a while, and you aren't sure how long it's been. Long enough that you can't feel your fingers.

Your grandmother appears before you, pale and wide-eyed. Her entire face sags when she sees you, and you barely blink before she has you in a vice grip, crushing you in her embrace. You feel your shirt dampening at the shoulder, and you hear the choked sounds she is making. You realise she's crying.

You wonder where are your Ma and Da. You give your grandmother a questioning look.

Someone places his hand on your shoulder. You look up, see the bearded, wise Professor Dumbledore.

"Your parents cannot be with you anymore," says the old man quietly.

You blink hard. You don't know what he means. But you miss your parents. You want to hear their laugh. You want to feel their warmth.

Why aren't they here?

You don't understand.

* * *

"You'll be staying with me for now, alright?" Gramma pushes your hair away from your eyes tenderly. You blink up at her, and nod slowly.

She smiles at you, strained and false.

She takes you to her home, large as a castle, grand as a palace.

Empty, save for you and her and the house elves.

* * *

Gramma tries. "Do you want to stay at home or go outside?"

You seat yourself determinedly in your room, your answer clear. The garden is dangerous, your Ma said before. You don't want to go outside without your Ma.

"Which is it?" she tries again. "Why don't you tell me?"

You shake your head.

She sighs.

* * *

"I don't know what to do, Albus," you hear your Gramma's voice. "He eats, he sleeps, he smiles. But he doesn't speak! He doesn't make a sound! Sometimes" – she breaks off, gasping – "sometimes, I forget he's even there. He's so quiet. When he cries, it's silent tears, not a sound. He used to be such an effervescent little boy, Albus, I don't know what's wrong with him."

Your house-elf spoons some food into your mouth gently.

"It will be alright, Augusta. He's been through a lot. He'll come out of his shell soon enough."

You obediently swallow, not making a sound.

* * *

On your third birthday, your Gramma throws you a party. The only person you recognise there is Ron, who brings with him his brothers and his little sister.

He looks very different. His face is slimmer, his hair thicker and his body longer.

Ron waddles over, a bright grin on his face.

"You wanna play?" he asks, waving a figurine of a familiar boy with black hair and bright green eyes. Harry Potter, you know, the hero of the Wizarding World.

You smile and nod.

Ron plays with the figurines with a wild abandon, hands waving, shouting gibberish spells that don't exist. You sit there and play quietly, until Ron gets bored and wanders off.

You sit, in the middle of a room full of loud, boisterous people you don't know, alone.

* * *

You're five and you still haven't spoken a word. Your Gramma has given up on you. She's disappointed, you know. You can see it from the way she looks at you, her eyes dark and cold and demanding.

You smile back, trying to convey your silent apology.

She sighs and shakes her head.

* * *

One day, your Gramma sits you down.

"You're seven-years-old now. Old enough for this, to know what happened to your parents. Albus believes you are too young, and so does your Great-Uncle Algie. But you must know, and you must see them. You're old enough."

You shrink back as she speaks, fear rising in your heart.

"We'll be going to St. Mungo's today, boy. Your parents are there."

You smile, even though you can't quite remember what your parents looked like, or even sounded like. All you know is that there's something missing, and that you have to keep silent until you see them again.

You fight back the dread, push it away and paste on a grin of excitement.

* * *

When you first walk into the white room, you're ecstatic. They're there! You can see them, they're smiling!

That's what they look like, you remember now.

Ma's brown hair, Da's stubble.

Then, you pause.

You wonder who they're smiling at, what they're laughing at.

There's no one in front of them, and no one is speaking.

* * *

You jump onto your Ma's bed. "Ma!" you squeal. You hear a sharp intake of breath behind you, but ignore it. "Ma, I've missed you and Da so much!"

You burrow into her warmth, marvel at how familiar it feels from the faded memories that feel more like a dream than reality. "I've missed you, Ma. It was such a terribly long game. It wasn't very fun, too. But I won, didn't I, Ma? I won!"

Your Ma doesn't answer, but you feel her stroke your hair softly, the way you think she used to.

You go to your Da next. "I kept my promise to Ma, Da. Are you proud of me? I kept my promise this whole time!"

He doesn't reply, either. You look up, into his eyes. You realise you haven't looked them both in the eye since you came in. The dread that you've tried so hard to suppress comes rising back up with a vengeance.

The back of your eyes prickle and your throat feels tight.

Your Da's hazel eyes are blank and empty. He stares off to the left of you, his lips forming silent words.

You glance to your Ma. Her blank, vapid smile.

She holds out her hand towards you, even as she stares out the window instead of at you.

You hold out your hand towards her.

She drops a sweet wrapper in to your palm.

You look up, eyes wide. When you speak, your voice is young and sweet and uncertain. "Ma?"


	10. Shatter

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: For QLFC Round 10. Beater 2, Ballycastle Bats.**

 **Prompts:**

 **(portrait) Sir Cadogan**

 **(quote) 'Real, or not real?' – Peeta Mellark, _The Hunger Games: Mockingjay._**

 **(quote) 'Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.' – Emily Bronte.**

 **(word) eager**

* * *

Two pairs of big, blue eyes stared up at him. He puffed up his armour-clad chest with pride. He did feel pleasantly tall on his pony, Sebastian.

"Who might you be, lads?" he asked suspiciously. He lifted his helmet to get a better look. Red hair and freckles. How familiar.

"Fred Weasley, good Sir!" squeals one of them. Sir Cadogan beams at the first year. Good Sir. It has been a long time since anyone has called him that.

"Aye, you're a good lad. What about you, boy? Twins, I see?"

"George Weasley," grins the red-haired child.

"What might you two want? Advice on slaying dragons? Arresting mangy curs? Killing foul beasts? Anything at all, just ask the heroic Sir Cadogan, I say! You've come to the right place, lads." His chest puffs out more, and he sticks his nose in the air for emphasis.

Unfortunately, the movement jostles poor Sebastian, who neighs and bucks.

"Ow!" yelps Sir Cadogan, as he slips off the pony and lands on his buttocks. "I say, Sebastian, that was very rude of you." His beloved pony glares at him.

The twins outside his portrait exchanges looks. "O great Sir Cadogan," begins the one called Fred. The knight looks up, delighted.

"We seek your help," says George.

"In our noble," says the first twin.

"Honourable –"

"– brilliant –"

"– quest for the best prank –"

"– ever seen by Hogwarts!" finishes Fred with a flourish. Sir Cadogan blinks, his neck sore from swinging from twin to twin, feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. Then, his mind latches on to one word.

"Why," exclaims the small knight, standing up with wobbly legs. "A quest! That's a fine idea, gentleman – a fine idea, indeed. Onwards, I say, onwards! Name what you need, and I shall offer it to you if I am able, lads! Sir Cadogan the Brave will help you!" He is bouncing on his feet in his excitement. Oh, the rush of adventure!

The twins beam. "Excellent," they chorus. A devious look settles on their face. "See, we were thinking…"

Sir Cadogan nods along eagerly. Wonderful boys, he thinks. Absolutely wonderful. Why, they reminded him of another group from nearly two decades ago! Four boys with an equally marvellous understanding of the honour of quests and the wonders of adventure.

* * *

The eager knight gallops through portraits, all the way from the Divinations corridor to the Entrance Hall, where he watches as the twins pull off their latest prank.

Two years in, and the twins' quest is going fantastically, marvels a delighted Sir Cadogan. With his wise advice and plentiful assistance, of course. This time, the twins have managed to make it rain toilet seats in the Entrance Hall. An amazing feat, that he, Sir Cadogan, helped in by running around the castle, searching for the best toilet seats.

Sir Cadogan carefully makes sure that he doesn't think of his failure to do so, as he found out that there are very few (none) toilets that contain a portrait for him to trot into on his pony.

Now, he watches as toilet seats fall from the ceiling, hitting students, but somehow not hurting them. Indeed, the toilet seats only bounce of them, and the Entrance Hall turns into a mess of laughing students tossing bouncing, porcelain seats at each other like balloons.

Except for one bushy-haired girl, notes Sir Cadogan, who sniffs and clutches her heavy load of books closer to her chest and squeezes through the crowd.

"Have so fun, lass!" shouts the little knight after her. But she doesn't hear him, and barely spares any of the portraits a glance.

The knight is a little disappointed, but it's forgotten when one of the toilet seats drifts close to the portrait he is inhabiting, and he swings his sword with a mighty battle cry.

* * *

Another quest came upon him two years later, much to Sir Cadogan's delight.

"A quest!" he says gleefully. "Come follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or else perish bravely in the charge!" He scrambles onto his pony, but unfortunately, it appears that Sebastian is grumpy today – terribly temperamental, that beast – and shrugs him off. Sir Cadogan hides his blush. "On foot then, good sirs and gently lady! On! On!"

He runs out of his portrait and down the corridor, in search of the Divinations classroom. The three students stumble after him, unable to keep up to his awesome speed and swift legs. The eager knight takes pity on them, and slows down.

He eyes one of the students running alongside him.

"I say," says Sir Cadogan suddenly. "You look familiar, lass! Have we met?"

The girl glances up at him. "Can't say we have," she says. "I would have remembered you."

Sir Cadogan beams, though her two escorts snicker, much to his confusion. "My thanks, lass. A compliment from a young lady such as yourself does me great honour. I am Sir Cadogan the Brave and Courageously Reckless! If my lady would divulge her name?"

She looks flabbergasted. _Ah_ , thinks Sir Cadogan sagely. _She did not expect such flattery from a magnificent and brave knight, such as I._ "I see," she manages. "I'm, er, Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"And a lovely name it is, Lady Hermione!" He turns his attention forward and yelps. "Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!"

And rushes headlong into a group of women in crinolines. They shriek at him and scream obscenities. "Pardon me, gentle ladies!" he calls back. "We are on a quest most urgent, I say, most urgent, indeed!"

One of the women picks up a rock on the ground and flings it at him. Her aim is true, and the rock hits him squarely on his helmeted head. He gives a cry. "I've been wounded, my comrade-in-arms! Wounded!"

One of the boys looks at him. "It didn't even make a dent in your helmet," he says, deadpan.

"Oh," says Sir Cadogan, surprised. "Indeed, it didn't. Onwards, then, my friends! Onwards!"

He rushes forward, and doesn't hear the other boy mutter, "Mental, that portrait is. Completely mental, eh, Lady Hermione?"

* * *

He sees the lovely Lady Hermione again – strangely enough, though he could have sworn she just passed but a few minutes ago.

One of the twins is in the corridor as well. Fred, recognises the knight. He stands at attention, eagerly wondering if the twins have come up with yet another quest for the mighty Sir Cadogan.

Alas, it was not meant to be, for young Fred has clearly fallen prey to the wiles of a woman. The knight deflates, disappointed in his charge. The boy pulls the woman into a broom closet – scandal! – both giggling as Fred plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

"Come on, Angelina," he wheedles. "Just five minutes."

"More like thirty," replies the seductress, looking amused.

Young Fred pulls her into the closet, just as the Lady Hermione sweeps past. Sir Cadogan catches the disapproving look on the young lady's face, and nods in agreement. Ah, decency. How rare it is these days.

Sir Cadogan makes a mental to note to lecture young Fred on the deceptions and trickeries of such promiscuous women. A virtuous woman, the boy should pursue. A virtuous woman with proper sensibilities, such as Lady Hermione.

* * *

Another two years later, and Sir Cadogan receives the shock of his portrait life.

More scandalous!

"Scoundrel!" cries Sir Cadogan. The couple before him springs apart. "Scandalous behaviour, I say! Depravity! Lady Hermione, I thought you better than this, better than to have fallen for the charms of wicked men like Frederick here! You sully the maiden's honour, Frederick!" The furious knight unsheathes his sword, tottering on his feet as he attempts to balance the heavy blade in his hands.

"Hey!" protests young Fred, his cheeks burning with colour.

On the other hand, the lady's face is completely red. Even her neck is colouring. "I should, er, go," she mutters.

"Hermione – no – can we talk? Please?" begs the scoundrel. "Come on, just meet me after dinner, okay?" He spares a moment to glare viciously at Sir Cadogan, who puffs up at the threat.

"Fred," she says, looking tired.

"Please," his eyes are wide. "Just give me a chance, Hermione. One chance."

"Silence, scoundrel!" shouts Sir Cadogan. "My lady, do not listen to him!" He rushes forward and points his sword at Frederick. "Flee now, my lady, flee! I shall fight this dishonourable man whilst you flee!"

The lady glances at him, looking exasperated. Then, she looks back at Frederick. "Flee, my lady," implores the knight. "Flee! I shall save you from this distress, my Lady, flee!"

"Oh," she says helplessly. "Alright."

Frederick's face lights up, despite Sir Cadogan's infuriated cries. "Thank you, Hermione! Thank you." He grins, boyish and happy. "This is real, Hermione. My feelings for you, their real. Please don't doubt that."

She blushes, glances up at him shyly.

"My lady, please!"

She ignores him. "Yeah," she says softly. "I'll see you later. After dinner. We'll talk more then." Her eyes cut sideways to Sir Cadogan, before she turns on her heel and runs down the corridor.

Frederick the Scoundrel stares after her, until the last wild curl of her hair disappears around the corner, then turns to Sir Cadogan.

"Fight me, I say!" challenges the knight. "Fight me, miserable cur!"

"Bloody hell," mutters the Scoundrel, and stalks away, shaking his head.

"Coward!" declares Sir Cadogan, and gives chase.

* * *

Two years pass, and this time he sees the couple in a sea of spells and battle and death. Her wild curls are flying and sparking with magic as she flings curse after curse, jinx after jinx. He fights beside her, along with his two brothers and another boy with green eyes and a lightning bolt scar.

The scoundrel looks well, even laughing in between spells.

"Hello, Minister!" bellows the older brother, whose name Sir Cadogan cannot remember. "Did I mention I'm resigning?"

" _Reducto_!"

Frederick lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

" _Experlliarmus_!"

"You're joking, Perce!"

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

" _Bombarda_!"

"You actually _are_ joking, Perce…"

" _Crucio_! _CRUCIO_!"

" _Petrificus totalus_!"

"I don't think I've heard you joke since you were –"

" _REDUCTO_!"

Sound explodes, and Sir Cadogan flees from the portrait he is currently sheltering in. His home portrait, the one in the Divinations corridor, has been destroyed, much to his indignation. But he managed to escape with his dear Sebastian before the fire claimed him, too.

Sir Cadogan's ears are ringing, and he slowly opens his eyes.

Then, the most awful sound pierces the corridor. He looks up, alarmed.

The young Lady Hermione is on her knees, her eyes wide and horrified and _pained_ in a way that makes Sir Cadogan's heart almost stop. From her lips, the worst sound spills. He looks in the direction of her gaze, and feels the world fall away.

At his feet, two of his brothers shaking him desperately, the scoundrel lies with his eyes glassy and unseeing, his lips curved into a smile, but undoubtedly, _dead._

" _No, no, no!_ " wails the Lady Hermione. "No! _Fred_! _No_!"

She crawls toward his prone body, her own leg bleeding profusely, but her eyes are wild and desperate. "Please, Fred, please, answer me. Answer me, please. _Answer me_!" she shrieks. Then, her voice lowers into a broken whisper that Sir Cadogan can't help but hear, even in his stunned state. "Real, or not real, Fred? Tell me. Tell me again that it's real. Real, or not real? Talk to me, Fred, _talk to me_!" She shakes him violently, but that does not change the fact that he is gone.

Sir Cadogan watches, disbelieving, as her friends pull her away, their cheeks wet with tears. "We need to go, Hermione, we need to go…"

She wails again, broken-hearted and full of unspeakable grief, and Sir Cadogan starts to shake.

* * *

She returns, after the battle, after the rebuilding. She returns to the exact corridor where he died, and stares at the wall that has been repaired, the seamless ceiling that looks as though it never crumbled, never fell on top of the scoundrel she loved.

She stares at it for a long time, and Sir Cadogan never makes a sound.

She comes and goes, her head held high, like the proud, refined lady Sir Cadogan knows she is.

But always, she returns, every year, on the same day, and stares at the spot as though she can still see his broken body there.

Always, she comes there, lets her mask fall, and Sir Cadogan can see the shattered look in her eyes and knows she still keeps the pain close to her heart. She clings to it desperately, that pain, though the knight does not know why.

Yet, she never lets a single tear fall.


	11. Drunk Love

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **[A/N]: For QLFC Round 11. Beater 2 Ballycastle Bats. Prompts are:**

 **(dialogue) "I think I'm in love with a cactus."**

 **(dialogue) "On your marks, get set… drink!"**

 **(quote) 'Green is not a creative colour.' – DHMIS.**

 **Word Count: 2405**

* * *

"On your marks, get set… drink!"

In hindsight, Draco reflects, this was a terrible idea and he should have known and he should _never_ have accepted the invitation out. He blames Seamus Finnegan. None of this would have happened if the bloody Gryffindor hadn't announced a drinking competition in celebration of Potter's birthday.

Draco learns many things about Harry Potter that day.

For one, Harry Potter drunk is a Harry Potter to stay far, _far_ away from.

Secondly, Harry Potter drunk is surprisingly coherent—much more so, in fact, than his sober self.

And finally, Harry Potter drunk is absolutely, mind-bogglingly, Luna Lovegood _mad._

It all starts when Potter decides to confess, "I think I'm in love with a cactus." For a moment, Draco thinks he must have misheard Potter—the bar is loud, after all, the music blaring and the drunken customers jeering and shouting and hooting with laughter. Then, Potter repeats himself, this time more firmly, "No, I don't think I'm in love with a cactus. I _am._ "

Draco's first thought is that he no longer has a chance, if Potter is already in love. His heart plummets to his stomach in disappointment, crashing and shattering, leaving him feeling horribly hollow. Then, Potter's words filters through his brain and kicks the cogs of his mind into action, and _Potter is in love with a cactus._

"A cactus," he repeats, somehow managing to sound perfectly calm. Inside, he struggles through thoughts muddled with shock and confusion. Well, he consoles himself, it would probably be much easier to seduce Potter away now. As if he, Draco Malfoy, could be less loveable than a bloody cactus. His heart soars—it isn't completely hopeless after all!

Then, it stutters and stops as he rethinks everything he has just thought.

Draco lets out a silent groan. This is what happens when you're around Harry bloody Potter too often. You start accepting everything he throws your way—even declarations of love for a _cactus_ , of all things _._ Why even a cactus? Why not a—a—he throws his mind around for something—Nundu?

A terrible example, as Draco would pick a prickly plant over a bloodthirsty, mindless beast equipped with vicious claws, teeth and the deadliest poison in the world any day.

The point is, a cactus is just so… _random._

"Yes," says the bastard sombrely, taking a sloppy gulp from his beer. Draco moves it away gingerly. "A cactus. It's a love that can never be, Malfoy. I am Romeo, and the cactus is the Juliet of my life."

Draco contemplates simply taking the easier option and passing out instead of having to stoop to come up with a response to _that._

"How horrible," he finally says.

"Isn't it?" cries Potter, his green eyes fixing onto Draco's with a desperate edge in them. Draco swallows heavily. "There is nothing I can do, Malfoy—I wish to shower it, er, _him_ with my love, but to do so would mean death for my beloved cactus. All I can do is stay afar and watch as he thrives without me."

Draco begins to blink rapidly. Unfortunately, Potter seems to think Draco has been moved to tears by his lamentation of the pains of his romance.

"I know," says the Saviour of the Wizarding World, looking so mournful Draco feels a lump rise in his throat. "It's tragic, our love."

He begins to sob and Draco gives up.

"You are never touching another drop of alcohol _ever_ again," declares the Malfoy heir, as he attempts to drag an uncooperative Potter to the Floo.

Potter continues to sob, all the while reaching out helplessly for his drink.

"Ever," repeats Draco emphatically.

* * *

Draco isn't sure when this fascination with Potter started. It's terribly distracting, especially when they're hunting Dark wizards; Draco often finds himself helplessly attracted to the way Potter's muscles flex in battle, the way Potter's messy hair flops into his eyes just so the man can blow it out of the way, the way Potter's cheeks are flushed with adrenaline…

He blinks. _Fuck._

"Draco," whines the Man-Who-Won, looking very _un_ intimidating. Draco should really find this quite unattractive, and he hoped that seeing Potter this pathetic would squash all trace of his… feelings—but, alas. Instead, as Potter flops onto the bed, flailing limbs, alcohol-sodden clothes and all, Draco finds his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the pale skin of Potter's neck. His gaze roams Potter's body shamelessly, and he is gripped by a wish—a _desire_ —to see more of it.

Then, as though abiding Draco's thoughts, Potter decides that alcohol-sodden clothes are very uncomfortable and removes them with surprising agility.

"What?" is what he wants to demand, yet all that leaves his throat is a horrible, almost guttural noise, as he tries not to ogle Potter's bare chest. It's a fine chest, really. Chiselled and defined and the finest trail of hair down the centre. Draco swallows, wondering why on _earth_ Potter had to become attractive, instead of remaining the scrawny git he was in Hogwarts.

Potter looks up at him through his lashes, and Draco's breath catches. "Draco," he whispers. The young Malfoy feels a bead of sweat slide down his forehead. He shifts, adjusting his collar casually. Potter looks shy and hesitant and his lips are bloody plump and pink and gorgeous—

"Will you bring me my cactus?"

Dear Merlin. The haze of lust that was descending over his mind clears almost instantly.

"No."

"Why _not_?" demands Potter.

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

"It is."

"Is not."

"I'm not doing this with you, Potter."

"Is not."

" _Potter._ "

" _Is not._ "

Draco sighs. "Will you stop if I bring you the bloody cactus?"

Potter glares. "Don't call him that. I won't tolerate any disrespect to my love. Really, I won't. His name is"—Potter pauses—"Felix."

Draco eyes him suspiciously. "You just came up with that," he accuses.

"Did not."

"Did, too."

"Did not."

"Did— _fuck._ "

Potter giggles.

"Bloody hell, Potter, I'm not calling your bloody cactus _Felix._ "

Potter leaps to his feet—or attempts to, anyway. In reality, he struggles to get up, his hand sluggishly pulling out his wand. "I will defend my Felix's honour! _Stupefy_!"

Draco ducks, as a red jet of light flies over his head.

"Bloody buggering _fuck_ , Potter! What the hell's wrong with you?"

Potter fixes him with a glare. "Never insult Felix in front of me!" He twirls his wand in a complex fashion, and Draco only has time to widen his eyes before he's hit with a spell.

There's a burning sensation on his behind and he yelps. He looks frantically around, and his jaw drops before he turns back and lets out a long stream of profanity at Potter. "You gave me a pig's tail?" demands Draco—he doesn't squeak. Really, he doesn't.

Potter giggles again—a more irritating sound, Draco has not heard. "I thought it was appropriate."

The young Malfoy's grey eyes bug out. " _How_?"

The Man-Who-Won breaks down into hysterical laughter.

* * *

"Remove it."

"No."

"Remove it _now_ , Potter."

"No, and you can't make me!" sings the bastard.

"Please?" tries Draco.

Potter opens one green eye. He looks considering, before he says, "Only if you say you're sorry for insulting Felix, and if you promise to call my beloved Felix from now on, and nothing rude."

Draco feels as though his mouth has been filled with something very bitter. On one hand, he has to be respectful to a _cactus_ —a cactus that Potter is apparently in love with—and on the other, he really has no idea how to get rid of the pig's tail.

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth.

Potter beams and it's almost blinding. "Excellent. Now, would you like to meet Felix? You can bring him over; he's in the kitchen."

Draco raises his wand.

" _No_!"

He closes his eyes and counts to ten, breathing deeply. "What's wrong now?"

"You can't _Summon_ Felix," says a horrified Potter. "What if he gets hurt on the way here? You wouldn't treat your girlfriend that way, would you? If you do, Draco, I think I'm going to have to arrest you—that's abusive, that is. Or your boyfriend," amends Potter, as an afterthought.

"Luckily, I don't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend," says Draco, before firmly intoning, " _Accio_ "—his throat closes up, but he manages to choke out—"Felix."

Potter squeals in horror.

A blur of green and brown zooms into Draco's outstretched hand. "See?" he says, looking a mix of disappointed and stunned. _There's actually a fucking cactus._ "It's fine. Safe."

Potter doesn't hear him, because he's already snatched the cactus out of Draco's hand and is busy crooning to the plant's non-existent ears.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose.

 _Please let this be a dream_ , he begs silently.

It's not.

* * *

When Potter comes into work next morning, Draco is gratified to note that the man is failing to meet his eyes.

"Potter," greets Draco with a light smirk.

The green-eyed Saviour walks past his cubicle with a determined look in his eye.

An annoyed—really, after everything he put up with, he deserves more than feigned ignorance—Draco calls after his retreating back, "How's Felix?"

Potter pauses as though considering, backtracks, and turns to face Draco. He has the most terrifyingly calm smile on his lips, and a strange glint in his eye that sends shivers down Draco's spine. "Why, Felix is fantastic, Malfoy," says Potter pleasantly. "I gave him a kiss before I left for work. We had a _very_ nice night."

Draco's eyes widen and he shifts nervously. "That's… lovely." After a brief pause, he blurts out, "Didn't it hurt?"

The other man's smile falters briefly, before it comes back on, full-force. "Felix thought you were very nice," he deflects. "Would you like to come over again? He's looking forward to a nice chat with you. And tea."

"A chat," says Draco slowly. "With Felix the cactus?"

"The cac—" Potter looks vaguely green, much to Draco's confusion. Then, his expression clears and when he speaks again, his voice is much more confident. "Yes, of course. Felix the cactus."

Somehow, Draco suspects his confidence is very much faked. "Your beloved?" he probes.

Potter nods along. "My beloved cactus." His green eyes dart around the office. His cheeks seem to tinge pink.

"The light of your life?"

"Er, yeah. Love it so much. That cactus."

"Him," corrects Draco, his eyes getting steadily narrower.

"Him?" Potter looks completely befuddled.

"Your cactus. Felix. It's a him."

"Oh, yes," says the Man-Who-Won, trying to looks wise and knowing. Draco thinks he looks vaguely constipated. "He's such a lovely… fellow. Very green. Creative colour, you know, green."

"I see," says Draco evenly. "Yes, one of his many wonderful qualities, I'm sure. Being green."

Potter stares at him for a long while, his lips a thin line and his jaw set.

Draco stares back, grey eyes cool and piercing.

Potter gives in first. "Okay, I have no fucking clue what happened last night."

"I thought so."

He glares. "Shut up, Malfoy."

A sense of malicious glee rises in Draco, which seems to have bled onto his face, for Potter looks suddenly wary. "Well, then," says Draco, with a very bright smile on his face that only seems to unnerve Potter further. "It's only right for me to _enlighten_ you. After all, I'm the one who had to Floo you home so you didn't Splinch yourself."

Potter pales.

Draco's smile widens.

* * *

Potter coughs and chokes on his wine before he manages to say, "You're joking."

"I kid you not," says Draco, and imitates Potter's solemn demeanour. " _Yes, a cactus. It's a love that can never be, Malfoy. I am Romeo, and the cactus is the Juliet of my life._ " He smirks as he forks a piece of steak into his mouth.

"Bollocks."

Draco's expression becomes positively gleeful. "I have Pensieve memories of this. Would you like a copy?"

"No," blurts out Potter immediately. "Merlin, _no._ "

"And you attacked me. To defend the honour of, ah, _Felix._ "

"Well, you were probably really rude to it," mutters Potter, and he gulps down another glass of wine. Draco shoots him a filthy look.

"It's a bleeding cactus. Of course I was rude to it."

"A cactus that I thought was the love of my life. You have no respect, Malfoy."

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of Draco's stomach, though he isn't quite sure why. Like a fool, he dismisses the feeling. "I dodged the attack, of course." Draco decides not to mention the pig tail. He shifts in his seat. At least Potter got it off in the end—after giving him a pig's snort to go with it, but that's beside the point. "My superior Auror skills, you know."

"Bravo. You dodged a drunk wizard's shoddy spellcasting. A medal—that's what you deserve!"

Draco scowls. "Shut it, Potter. Remember, I have the Pensieve memories."

Potter takes a long draught of wine, his face pained. "I can't believe I actually said that I was in love with a cactus."

"I was a bit disappointed, really, that you weren't actually in love with a cactus," lies Draco, pouting. "I thought I had a good scoop for the Daily Prophet."

Potter looks torn between amusement and horror at the thought of the Daily Prophet getting their hands on this 'scoop'. "I live to disappoint," he finally says. He lifts a full glass of wine in a toast. "To prickly boyfriends."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "To drunken Saviours."

Potter drains his glass, and the dread in Draco's stomach intensifies. He glances to the side of the table, where three empty wine bottles sit. Then, he glances at his first, half-full glass of wine.

"Fuck."

* * *

This time, Draco blames Potter. What kind of idiot gets drunk while being regaled of horror stories of what they did while _previously_ drunk?

The Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Man-Who-Won, the Defeater of the Dark, apparently.

"There, there, Potter," says Draco, trying to sound patient and kind—a combination that goes against his very nature. "Into bed you go." Potter staggers into the bed obediently, before glancing at Draco through his lashes.

The young Malfoy groans. _Don't ask for the cactus, don't ask for the cactus, don't don't don't don't—_

"Can you bring me Felix, please?"

 _Damn._

" _Accio_ Felix," intones Draco dully.


	12. Muggles and Wizards

**[A/N]: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **Written for QLFC Round 13, Ballycastle Bats, Beater 2.**

 **Prompts:**

 **A natural disaster;**

 **(word) passion;**

 **(dialogue) "I** ** _will_** **eat that damn muffin if it kills me.";**

 **(setting) a Muggle restaurant.**

 **Word count: 2999 words.**

* * *

 _Chengdu, China._

 _May 21_ _st_ _, 2008._

 _11:29 p.m._

"Mummy will be home soon, alright, dears?" said Pansy distractedly. She twirled her wand, dark eyes tracking the motion carefully in the mirror.

"When?" demanded Carson with all the glory of his six-year-old petulance.

"You're always away," added his elder sister, Lucretia.

Pansy smiled as she pulled her wand away and locks of dark hair fell across her shoulder in perfect curls. She glanced to the side, where she had a hand mirror propped up against the wall. Instead of her reflection, it showed her two children, their little faces squished together as they both tried to cram into sight. Her smile faded. "Soon," replied Pansy, her tone clipped.

Her son pouted.

"Will you be home for my birthday?" asked Lucretia hopefully.

"Ah, yes," said Pansy, once more distracted as she used her wand to apply a nice, thick line of eyeliner. "That's two days away, isn't it, love?"

Her daughter sounded glum when she replied, "Yes, Mum."

"Mother," corrected Pansy. "I've told you over and over, Lucretia, purebloods do not call their parents something as _pedestrian_ as 'Mum'." Her face contorted into a sneer, even as she switched to applying mascara.

"Yes, Mother." Lucretia sounded even more glum.

Pansy sighed, putting down her wand. She looked at her daughter. "I've got you a present already, dear," lied Pansy. "Something special for your eighth birthday."

Lucretia's face lit up, and despite herself, Pansy let a smile slip through.

"What is it?" asked Lucretia excitedly.

"You'll have to wait to find out," she said smoothly, making a mental note to _find_ said present quickly.

It was at this point that Carson decided he had been quiet for far too long. "So you'll be back by Lucy's birthday?" he asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He had noticed that his mother never really answered the initial question.

 _A proper Slytherin, this one_ , thought Pansy proudly.

"Carson, love," she said. "I did not give your sister a beautiful name just so it can be butchered to _Lucy._ "

Carson waved the complaint aside. "Will you be back?"

Pansy sighed. A little too Slytherin, it would seem, although she admitted her attempt to change topics had not been very subtle. "Probably not," she admitted. "There is a lot to do here with your Uncle Draco, and I'm afraid the meeting with the Chinese Minister of Magic is simply too important for me to miss. Not to mention, we have to meet several other government officials after Minister Chen."

"But it's Lucretia's birthday!" said Carson, outraged.

It was not her son's reaction, however, that Pansy was most wary of. For all his Slytherin attributes, he had always been quick to anger and quick to forgive. His confrontations were loud and direct, like a Gryffindor.

Her daughter, on the other hand, was the opposite. What Lucretia lacked in observation skills, the girl made up for in her temper. She was cold and unforgiving at best, and a firm advocate of the phrase 'revenge is a dish best served cold'. Pansy hated to think what her daughter could come up with when angry—and now, she could only watch as Lucretia's face blanked.

Pansy winced at the empty tone the seven-year-old used when she spoke. "It's alright, Car," said Lucretia, all the while staring intently at her mother. "My birthday isn't as _important_ , that's all."

Carson glanced between his mother's thin-lipped expression and the silent fury etched in his elder sister's stiff body language.

"Now, Lucretia," tried Pansy. "You know that isn't what I meant; I—"

"As I said, Mother, it's alright. I understand completely. Politics is important to you," interrupted Lucretia coolly. "I know you've put so much effort into cleansing our world of filthy Mudbloods and half-breed werewolves. It's inspiring, really, to see such bias and discrimination in my mother. Makes me wish I could be just like you." She said 'Mudbloods' and 'half-breed' like they left a foul taste in her mouth.

Pansy stared. She knew a heartfelt speech when she heard it; she could hear the passion, the belief. But she also recognised someone else's Mudblood-loving words spilling from Lucretia's mouth. "Where did you hear that from?" she asked quietly.

Lucretia glared back defiantly.

" _Where_?" hissed Pansy, her anger increasing at the look.

"Teddy Lupin," replied her daughter evenly. "We've been writing to each other for two years. He tells me what his Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione say about you," she added. "He tells me what his whole family says about you."

 _Breathe_ , Pansy told herself. "When I get back," she said through gritted teeth, her eyes narrowed and furious, "you and I will be having a _very_ long talk. And hopefully, I'll be able to rid you of these foolish blood-traitor notions."

Lucretia didn't even blink. "You can try," she said. "But from the looks of it you won't be home very soon, will you?" The barest hint of sadness flitted across the girl's face. Pansy ignored the twisting feeling in her gut.

"I've already told you, Lucretia, I'm—"

"Goodbye, Mother," said the seven-year-old, while Carson shuffled nervously in the side.

"—busy," finished Pansy, but already, her daughter had closed the connection.

With a snarl, Pansy sent a Blasting Hex at the vase in her hotel room.

* * *

 _12:12 p.m._

"You're bloody joking," said Pansy, staring at the building before her. She had known, of course, the moment Draco had sent her a note, telling her to dress inconspicuously, but she had hoped it was some sort of horrible joke. To be safe, though, she had still dressed in her neatly pressed, bright purple pantsuit. It even had a little bow she could pin into her hair to go with it.

Draco, in turn, was wearing some dull, grey suit that looked like bits of elephant skin on him. Luckily, he missed her wrinkled nose and mild sneer as she glanced at his outfit. "I'm completely serious," he said, a faint warning note in his voice.

Pansy ignored it. "First, my daughter reveals she's a fucking Mudblood-lover, and now you're telling me that we're having dinner at a Muggle fucking restaurant with Minister fucking Chen?" she snarled, not bothering to keep her voice low.

"Pansy!" said her blonde friend. He glanced around nervously. "They'll _hear_ you."

She gave him a disgusted look in return. "Don't be a wanker, Draco, it's not like they can understand us anyway. We're in _China_ , remember? They speak Chinese or oranges or whatever."

"Mandarin. And I swear to Merlin, stop talking about Muggles and Mudbloods so loudly; if you fuck this up for us…" he threatened furiously. Pansy sighed, but nodded. They both knew how important this meeting was. "What's all this nonsense about Lucretia anyway?"

Pansy huffed. "I was on a mirror-call with her and Carson just a couple of hours ago," she told him. "She told me off for discriminating against Mudbloods and werewolves. Passionately." Her voice was heavy with derision.

"Hell," said Draco, sounding vaguely sympathetic. "How did that happen?"

"Guess," she responded darkly.

"Probably has something to do with Potter," he muttered.

"Bingo."

Draco's grey eyes fixed on something over Pansy's head. He shifted, his coat jingling as he did so. "Tell me later," he said, his voice low. He had a wide, utterly fake smile plastered on. "Now tone down the insults, would you? Minister Chen's here." He waved.

Pansy turned, fixing on her own simpering smile. In the distance, the Minister was briskly walking towards them, looking quite a fair sight better than herself and Draco in Muggle garb.

"Minister Chen," she said brightly, once he was close enough. "A pleasure to meet you."

He smiled back politely, his gaze darting up and down her outfit. "Pleasure," he said. He spoke with an accent, but it was faint. "And you are?"

"Pansy Nott," she said, shaking the proffered hand.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Nice to meet you both," said the Minister. He gestured at the two bodyguards flanking him. "This is Yang Qi En and Han Chen Ming. They are, ah, our equivalent of Aurors, I suppose."

"How do you do, Miss En, Mr. Ming," said Draco politely. The two nodded back, their expressions blank.

The Chinese Minister of Magic glanced at his two employees, before turning back to Draco. "Well, now that the introductions are done," he smiled. Pansy thought it looked a little forced. "Let us have some breakfast, shall we? After you, Mrs. Nott."

Pansy nodded graciously and stepped through the Muggle establishment, trying her very best not to be sick.

* * *

 _12:38 p.m._

"Oh, how wonderful!" smiled Draco. "Children are such a blessing—congratulations, Minister. And right after your election as Minister of Magic, too."

The Minister studied Draco closely. "I am a busy man, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Nott," he said softly. "You asked for this meeting, and it is only because of my predecessor's… recognition of your families' influence that I have agreed to this meeting. If either of you could, ah, how do you English-speakers say it, _get to the point_ , it would be much appreciated."

Draco spluttered ineffectually, embarrassment and anger reddening his pale face. Pansy rolled her eyes and leaned forwards. "Apologies for my friend," she said, as charmingly as she could. "He likes to ramble, our dear Draco."

"The point, Mrs. Nott," said Minister Chen with ill-concealed distaste.

Pansy dropped the façade. "Very well," she said, with a faint sneer. "We represent the more conservative political faction of magical Britain, and we are here to discern your thoughts on the upcoming decision of the ICW."

The Minister looked slightly mollified. "Ah," he said. "The werewolf-vampire situation in Africa?"

"Yes," said Pansy curtly. She fell silent briefly as the waiter arrived with their food. "As we understand it, the ICW is currently considering intervening in the conflict, due to the potential spill-over into the Muggle world."

"The African Ministries have sent a plea for help," agreed the Minister. "So far they have a handle on the situation, and they've managed to cover up the deaths as disease and famine, but that won't work for long."

"Indeed," cut in Draco, having finally recovered from the indignity of being called out. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, the ICW has three choices before them: to exterminate all werewolf and vampire instigators, to capture them for trial, or to not intervene in the situation at all."

Minister Chen nodded grudgingly, his dark eyes darting between Pansy and Draco.

"We are appealing to you, a highly respected member of the ICW, to vote to exterminate them," said Pansy simply.

The Minister focused on her, his lips a thin line. He appeared to consider her carefully. "Convince me," he said finally.

* * *

 _2:26 p.m._

"I can't fucking do this," said Pansy, standing. She glared down at the bowl of wonton noodle soup she had barely been able to touch because she had no idea how to use those blasted _twigs._

Draco nodded, throwing his chopsticks down. "I saw a café down the street," he said. "We can get food there."

"Anything's better than this," she sniffed, as Draco signalled for the bill. "I can't believe we put up with all this just for an insincere ' _I'll think about it_ '."

The Malfoy lord grimaced. "I don't think he was convinced, no."

Pansy glared at the waiter whose only mistake was to be the poor sod that brought them the bill. "He wasn't. Loves the bloodthirsty monsters, I know it."

"Well," sighed Draco, "we weren't particularly optimistic about this one. Who's next?"

"Singapore," replied Pansy, taking a long draught of her tea. Her lips turned downwards slightly at the taste; it was… different from English tea, and she wasn't sure if she liked it. She slid out of her seat in one smooth movement, tapping her toe impatiently as Draco paid the waiter.

"Slow down," said Draco, as she latched onto him and pulled him away the instant he finished paying.

"I'm bloody hungry," she snapped. "We just completely failed to sway the Chinese Minister of Magic to our side, and I do believe he hates us, at least with how quickly he left. What's the time?"

Draco blinked at the sudden question. He glanced at his watch. "2:27."

"Great," grumbled Pansy loudly. Her dark eyes shot daggers at any who dared to so much as glance in her direction. "I couldn't eat anything in this blasted restaurant, because they insist on using little twigs instead of anything _sensible._ I'm starving; I want a bloody muffin, and I _will_ eat that damn muffin if it kills me."

She stepped outside and the world _shook._

* * *

Dust and rubble. Broken walls of buildings spilt across the once polished streets. A woman woke blearily, her purple pantsuit ruined. She stood, her legs shaky and her eyes wide as she took in the scene.

People were screaming. Some were sobbing. Some clawed desperately at immovable blocks of concrete, where more muffled shouts sounded. The woman, with trembling hands, reached for something in her sleeve, but only pulled out a wooden stick, snapped in half. She stared down at the two halves.

A man grabbed at her, shouting and pleading. She shook her head, uncomprehending. "I don't understand," she said. "I don't know what you're saying." The man did not give up; his eyes were filled with a horrible desperation, tears spilling over, carving dark streaks through his dust-covered skin. He pointed at the rubble behind him, where a dark, crimson red was spreading across the ground.

A small shoe lay beside it, half hidden by bits and pieces of brick. A child's shoe.

The woman started towards it, her movements sluggish, as though half in a dream. She glanced down at the two broken sticks in her hand again. Then, she looked at the man, helpless. "I can't help you," she said, her voice broken. She shook her head, almost frantically.

The man stumbled back as if struck. He turned back to where the rubble buried his child and sank to his knees, pushing with all his strength, for all he was worth.

Nothing worked.

The woman looked away, guilty. Then, her lips parted and her eyes widened. "Draco," she said. She spun round, trying to catch sight of pale blonde hair. She repeated the name, louder and louder, until she was screaming it.

Then, she heard it. A muffled groan from behind her. She stared up at the crumbling building, where its ruins piled up taller than her. "Draco?" she said again.

A voice responded, pained and scared. She thought it might have been saying her name.

It was all she needed to lunge at the pile of rubble, attacking it with her bare hands. Five hours ago, the woman would have thought herself above it. Would have thought herself uncouth and _Muggle_ to have used her hands to pull away at blocks and blocks of rubble. Now, her mind was desperate and uncaring, her only thought to save her friend who was trapped beneath tonnes of brick.

Her nails cracked under the strain. She was sweating more than she had her entire life. She ignored the bleeding of her fingers, wiped her brow and kept at it. All the while, she talked to her friend, trying to distract him from his crushed leg with her voice.

She struck gold after fifteen minutes.

Her friend's wand, dusty and covered in grime, but whole. She grabbed at it. The wand, as though sensing her desire to help its owner, bonded with her magic as though it were her own wand. She pushed back a grin, focused her mind.

She cast a quiet Notice-me-not, hoping to stave off Muggle attention.

She waved her wand, and the rubble moved. It only took her two minutes to find her friend beneath the rubble. He was bloody and exhausted, but when he saw her he smiled.

She sobbed and hugged him.

"Thank Merlin," she kept repeating.

When she was calm and his leg was as mended as she was able to do with no Healer training, she looked around again.

The man was still trying, fruitlessly, to pull the rubble off his child. The woman thought he might not even realise he was doing it anymore. There was a half-crazed look in his eyes, made all the more crazed at the sight of blood staining the ground.

"Let's go," her friend said urgently. "I don't want to stay in this bloody country anymore."

She barely heard him.

Instead, she walked over to where the Muggle man knelt.

"Fuck it," she whispered.

He looked up, saw her standing over him. She looked into his eyes, saw the heartbreaking hope in it. She knew, without a shadow of doubt, that his child was dead. There was too much blood. It had been too long.

But then she thought of her own children. Her daughter and son's bright smiles. She would want their bodies, she knew. She wouldn't want them buried beneath the rubble for a second longer than necessary, even if they were long gone.

" _Wingardium leviosa,_ " she intoned. The rubble lifted off easily, as the Muggle father watched with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

His awe was short-lived, however, as his dark eyes landed on his son's broken body.

The woman fought back tears of her own when he let out a horrible, mangled scream. He scrambled forwards, uncaring off the shattered glass that cut into his palms. He pulled the child into his arms, his shaking hands reaching out to touch cold, tender skin.

The woman's friend stared, his eyes shuttered with guilt and pity.

She turned back to him. "Stay here," she said hoarsely. "I'm going to help others."

"The Statute of Secrecy," he protested weakly.

"Fuck the Statute," she said shortly. She looked at the grieving Muggle father, rocking back and forth as he cradled his son.

She walked off, wand ready in her hand.

* * *

 **[A/N]: Yes, I'm aware that Draco got the names wrong. That was on purpose. I just figured with how isolated Wizarding Britain is, it's quite plausible for them to be unaware of how Chinese names work. And Chinese culture in general. As for the earthquake, I can't claim to have ever been in one, and definitely not one of the magnitude of the Sichuan earthquake. I can only hope I have managed to capture even a fraction of the horror of the event.**


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